Surfacing
by Zubeneschamali
Summary: COMPLETE. Alan's new clients might have connections to terrorist activity in an FBI case that strikes a little too close to home.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Surfacing  
Author: Zubeneschamali  
Rating: T (violence)  
Summary: Alan's new clients might have connections to terrorist activity in an FBI case that strikes a little too close to home.

Timeline: Takes place after "Convergence" and ignores anything that came after it, particularly "Bones of Contention."

Author's notes: This is the product of my attempt at NaNoWriMo last November, which is why it unintentionally repeats the B-plot of "Bones of Contention." Also, some aspects of Southern California's geography have been altered for purposes of this story. Thanks to Becky for beta reading, and to Lady Shelley for maintaining "Running the NUMB3RS"!

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16 million residents  
2 suspected terrorists  
56 potentially toxic chemicals  
2 poisoned wells

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Prologue  
Saturday, November 26, 2005  
9:45 P.M.  
Eppes house

Alan knew he would always remember the look on Don's face, standing before the open front door, his gun extended in front of him and aiming at a spot just over Alan's right shoulder. It wasn't an expression he associated with his son. It was cold and unrelenting, but also full of unwavering strength in the face of a terrible situation. It showed the courage that he always knew his boy had, but had never seen displayed quite like this. It showed him he had been right all those years ago when he had acceded to Don's wishes and sent him off to Quantico instead of spring training.

At the moment, though, it was as terrifying an expression as any he had ever seen. And the words that his son was speaking were just as frightening to hear.

"There's no way you're going to walk out of here with those files," he was saying to the man standing behind Alan. The one whose pistol was poking into Alan's side as he stood there with the stack of folders retrieved from upstairs cradled in his hands.

The gun dug a little more deeply into his side, but Alan fought to keep his expression calm and his eyes steady on Don's face. "You will let me go by," the man behind him growled, "or I will pull this trigger. You know that I will."

Don's expression still didn't change, and Alan's admiration for his son grew even more. His voice like steel, he repeated, "I will not let you walk out of here." His gaze flickered to Alan's for just a second, and Alan gave him the slightest of nods. 'I'm with you,' he tried to convey with his expression. He thought Don understood, but he wasn't sure.

The gun moved to his temple. "Last chance, Eppes. Let me by, or you're out a family member."

Alan inhaled a shaky breath. Don's professional mask had slipped, and rage was now gleaming in his eyes. But his aim stayed steady, so that Alan was not quite looking down the barrel of his gun, but slightly to the side. He wondered, not for the first time that night, what his odds of surviving this were. If Don shot the gunman behind him, would his finger have time to pull the trigger of the weapon resting against Alan's head? Charlie would know, he thought, and that brought him a wave of gratitude that at least one of the three of them wasn't caught in this mess.

Then there was a loud click as the gunman released the safety on his pistol, and Alan didn't need a mathematician to tell him his odds had just gone way down. It was in Don's slightly widened eyes, something that would have been nearly imperceptible to anyone else, but that was as clear as an open-mouthed face of shock to him. They'd already stalled their way out of one such confrontation tonight. But now that the gunman had what he wanted, he really didn't need Alan Eppes any more.

Alan closed his eyes for a moment and said a prayer in an inner voice rusty from disuse. When it came down to it, his life didn't matter right now, not compared to the possible consequences if his captor got away with the documents he held. All that mattered were those files. He hadn't had much hope of escape ever since this night started, but at least now there was the hope that justice would be served, and that the innocent would not be harmed.

So he took a deep breath and prepared to do what might be the last thing he would ever do in this life. He caught his son's eye and broke the tense silence in a surprisingly calm voice. "You do what you have to," he said quietly, not sure if he meant it as a command or an explanation. He saw Don's eyes widen a fraction as he processed the words.

And then he made his move.

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Chapter 1  
Monday, November 14 (twelve days earlier)  
5:40 P.M.  
Eppes house

"Charlie, are there still some leftovers in the fridge?" Alan poked his head into the garage, then paused at the sight that met his eyes. His younger son was bobbing his head in time to some inaudible beat, his hand moving rapidly across the chalkboard as the chalk made quick clicking and scraping noises on the green surface. He could see the twin white cords trailing from Charlie's ears down to the iPod that must be stashed in a pocket. He watched as Charlie paused, picked up an eraser, and rubbed out all that he'd written while Alan had been standing there watching him.

Alan let out an exclamation of surprise at seeing all of that work disappear. It must have been louder then he intended, because Charlie halted in his movements, and then gave the white cords a tug so the earplugs came tumbling out of his ears as he turned around. "Dad! How long have you been there? Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

"Oh, that's all right." Alan folded his arms and leaned against the side of the doorway. "I didn't want to disturb you in case you were in the middle of a train of thought." Not that anything short of taking the chalk out of his hand and turning off his music would get his attention when he was really intent on his work. If that.

"No, it's okay. I kind of hit a dead end anyway. What's up?"

"I just got home, and I was wondering if there were still enough leftovers in the fridge, or if I was going to have to prepare dinner. Stan Carter is coming over, and I don't want to have to call out for pizza."

Charlie chuckled. "I think there's still some of that hamburger pie I made earlier in the week. But Dad, are you sure you want to feed your boss leftovers?"

"Just because his name comes first in the name of our business doesn't mean he's the boss. We're partners, fifty-fifty. Besides, you do work for Don; do you think of him as your boss?"

Charlie rolled his eyes and laid the chalk and eraser down on the rail of the chalkboard. "Give me a break. You know I don't. Don't let Don hear you say that, though, or it might give him some ideas."

It was Alan's turn to chuckle, and he took a step back and extended his arm towards the house. "You ready to come in?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I could use the break."

"You working on something for Don?" Alan asked as they crossed the backyard. The sky was prematurely darkening, and it seemed like the rain that the weatherman had predicted was on its way.

"No, it's actually my own work, for once." Charlie shook his head. "I guess you could say Marshall Penfield actually inspired me."

"Well, you already know I think you do too much for other people, Charlie. You come up with equations for Larry, you solve cases for your brother, you help Amita with her work…I know you have tenure, and you certainly don't need to prove yourself to your colleagues. But it's important to have your own career and not just be doing things for others."

Charlie gave him a shrewd look as he opened the back door. "Is that why you're working with Stan? Or is it because you're doing something for others?"

"It's because I'd go crazy here in the house all day by myself, that's why." Alan climbed the few steps to the back door and entered as Charlie held the door open. "And it's nice to be able to put my skills to work on something I'm interested in without worrying about the politics of whether it's actually going to be implemented or not."

"Did that happen a lot when you worked for the city?" Charlie shut the door and followed him into the kitchen. "Where something you worked on got abandoned for political reasons?"

"Oh, sure, all the time. Don't you remember me ranting about it when you were growing up?"

He shrugged. "I remember you complaining about work sometimes, but I don't remember exactly what the problem was."

Alan looked at him, wondering if Charlie had been too wrapped up in his own little world to notice, or if Margaret had always managed to soothe his ruffled feathers enough that neither of the boys noticed. "Well, I had my share of projects go up on the shelf in a black binder, never to be seen again. There's nothing more frustrating than putting your heart into a piece of work for months, and then knowing that nothing's going to come of it and no one's ever going to read it."

"You know that with most of the papers I publish, I would be happy if more than a dozen people ever read them."

He stared. "Larry's told me about people who have contacted you from around the world to get copies of your papers."

Charlie waved a hand as if to say that wasn't the point. "Yeah, but most of my articles are a lot more obscure. And that's okay, that's just the nature of mathematics. But I guess that's different than a job where you're expecting to make a difference to the public."

"Yeah, it is." Alan reflected for a moment. Of course, he'd accomplished a lot in his time as a city planner for Pasadena, from affordable housing regulations to helping to revitalize downtown. But a lot of what he'd wanted to do had been shot down for one reason or another, leaving him increasingly frustrated. Margaret had encouraged him to focus on the positive things he had done and to let go of the things he couldn't change. That helped a lot, at least in terms of his mental state.

Now that he wasn't a regular employee, but a paid consultant, it was even easier to take a step back from city and state politics. He was providing information, that was all. If someone else chose to use it, that was great. If not, he still collected his fee. Of course he still cared about the results of his work, and he enjoyed seeing the tangible results when a building was erected or a park was dedicated, but he'd learned over the years to take a more pragmatic approach and not take his work so personally.

"So what are you and Stan working on?" Charlie opened the refrigerator and took out the casserole dish. "And when is he coming by?"

"He's supposed to be here at six." Alan checked his watch and saw that it was a quarter till. "And I don't know what the project is; that's what he's going to tell me about. Some kind of collaboration with Pasadena Water and Power, I think, but I'm not sure."

"Huh." Charlie put the casserole dish on the counter and closed the refrigerator door. "Sounds interesting," he said.

The doorbell rang, and Charlie moved to get it. "No, I'll get it," Alan said. "It's probably Stan."

As he crossed through the living room, he thought for a moment about what Charlie had said. He supposed he wasn't really doing this work for himself, although it was nice to still have a source of income. Not that he had to worry about money; Charlie's cash purchase of the house had ensured that he would be taken care of for many years to come, not even counting his pension from the city. And his volunteer work, both at the shelter and occasionally at the local elementary school, certainly did give him something to do with his days. As did golf, bowling, and all those other sorts of things that you got to enjoy once you were retired. But it was nice to still feel like he was useful, like he could still help.

And he was looking forward to working with Stan again. They had both worked for the city of Pasadena back in the '80s, and had both been on the planning commission at the same time before Stan chose to transfer to the L.A. Parks Department. Something about wanting to be outside more often, Alan remembered. But they'd kept in touch, always joking that whoever retired first would be hired by the other as a consultant. When they'd decided to retire in the same month, it was clear that going into business together was the logical thing to do, and Carter and Eppes had been born. They'd had a few small projects so far, but he had the feeling that this was something bigger. Whatever it was, he was looking forward to getting involved. His sons weren't the only Eppes who wanted to feel like they were making a difference in the world.

"Stan, nice to see you," Alan said when he opened the door. "Come on in."

The short, stocky man shook out his umbrella and entered the house, neatly laying the wet umbrella down on the mat just inside the door. "It's raining cats and dogs out there, Alan. That your son's bike in the driveway?"

Alan heard a muffled exclamation from behind him, and a moment later, Charlie was hurrying past Stan after exchanging brief hellos to get his bicycle under cover. "That boy hasn't changed since he was a kid," Stan said as he followed Alan towards the dining room.

"Oh, yes he has." Alan thought briefly about the conversation he'd had with his son the other night. Charlie's frustration about his old rival had led him to realize that he needed to do his own work and be his own person. Alan had told him that he wasn't wasting his time with his FBI consulting, and that he should work on whatever made him happy, but he knew his boy. Years ago, Don couldn't have dragged Charlie away from his chalkboards with a team of wild horses. Now, Charlie was not only interested in his numbers, but in what they meant out in the real world. It was a change Alan had enjoyed watching happen.

"Sorry it's nothing fancy," he said as he ushered his old friend to a seat at the table. "Maybe next time I'll have a little more warning before you invite yourself over for dinner, hmm?"

Stan barked a short laugh. "You're the one who made it a dinner invitation, Eppes." He reached for the plate of bread from the plate Charlie had set on the table on his way out the door.

"Uh huh," Alan threw over his shoulder as he headed towards the kitchen. "That's why you asked to come over at 6 P.M., right?"

Half an hour later, the three men had finished eating, during which time Charlie had peppered them both with questions about their new business. "Charlie, we've only had a few clients – there isn't a whole lot to tell," Alan had pointed out, but his son still wanted to know about their office space (on the second story of a building on Colorado Boulevard), their expected clients (old contacts in various city agencies, at least for starters), and the focus of their work (urban infrastructure planning). At some point, Alan's suspicions began to rise that Charlie was walking them through a series of questions designed to make sure that they knew what they were getting themselves into, but he shook it off. His son might be a brilliant mathematician, but he was sure he didn't have any experience in running a business of his own.

Not that Alan did, either, but he tried not to think about that.

Stan pushed back his plate with a contented sigh. "Good meal, Charlie. I guess I was wrong – you have changed since you were a kid. Don't think you cooked so well growing up."

Charlie ducked his head as he picked up the plates to carry them into the kitchen. "Thanks, Stan. I didn't have much opportunity; Mom was always such a good cook."

"That she was," Alan sighed. His eyes flickered, as they often did when her name came up, to the photographs of Margaret Eppes hanging on the wall.

"So, uh, why don't we get started?" Stan's voice cut into his thoughts, and he noticed his friend looking slightly uncomfortable as he pulled a stack of paper out of the backpack he had brought with him. Alan understood. Stan had lost his own wife about five years ago in a car accident, and he didn't like talking about her or anything related to her unless it was absolutely necessary. Margaret and Nancy had been as close as their husbands were, and it was hard for Stan when his wife's best friend had passed away, leaving him without that one last link to his dead wife.

"Sure." Alan pushed aside the plates and glasses, clearing a space on the table for the files. "What've you got there, my friend?"

"Well, I got a call from some environmental group that wants to restore the L.A. River to a free-flowing, natural stream. Not likely that's going to happen, considering the need for flood control around here, but anyway. They've heard about the contamination problem up by JPL, and they want to know how likely it is that the stuff could get down into the river. So they asked around, and they called this afternoon to hire us."

Alan sat back in his chair for a moment. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory, a NASA facility that was run by CalSci, was at the very northern edge of the city, at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was a beautiful setting, but any chemicals that seeped into the ground could easily run downhill and contaminate the wells that the city relied on for its water supplies. There had been a few incidents over the past decade where chemicals associated with rocket fuel had been found in the nearby wells that supplied the city's drinking water. NASA had been good about cleaning things up, but he could see how private citizens might be concerned about the potential for future, more dangerous events. "This isn't exactly the kind of work I was thinking of taking on. We're not hydrologists, Stan."

"No, but you've dealt with groundwater contamination before, haven't you? You know a lot about the water system in Pasadena, and that's where any of that crap would have to pass through before it got to the river, right? Besides, I figure you just ask your old friends at the city for a little information, and we're all set. Not too many billable hours, but hey, we gotta start somewhere."

He frowned. "How much did they offer to pay?" He certainly wasn't opposed to working with a non-profit organization, but he had envisioned making money off this little venture, not carrying out analyses for organizations too poor to do it themselves.

"The going rate that we agreed on. Don't worry, it's not pro bono or anything."

His eyebrows raised. "What, is this one of those environmental groups run by Hollywood types?"

"You charging high-end prices, Dad?" Charlie paused in his clearing of the table, a teasing tone in his voice. "Trying to price out the non-profits to get to where the real money is?"

"No, we're charging a reasonable rate based on what other firms in the area charge. I'm just surprised that a group I've never heard of is able to hire a private consultant to answer a question that they could just go to the city and ask themselves."

"They said they did." Stan leaned back and gave him a knowing look. "Got some kind of rigmarole about restricted information and being off-limits to the public. They did some looking around, found that one of us has connections to the city, and thought we might be able to help them out."

Great, Alan thought. Our client is hiring us because they think I can bend the law for them. "So they just want a copy of this report?"

Stan looked through his notes. "That, and, I quote, 'an expert analysis as to the amount of the substance it would take to contaminate the L.A. River and our valuable drinking water supplies.' In case NASA hasn't already done it, that is."

"Well, I'm sure they haven't. They only asked the city to close down the two closest wells, and they don't seem to be concerned about anything downstream."

Stan leaned slightly forward. "Ah, maybe that's just what they want you to think," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "File it away with your magic bullet, Eppes."

Alan rolled his eyes. Stan loved making fun of conspiracy theories, including his own particular fascination with Kennedy's assassination. "Okay, I think we can handle that."

"Good. You can impress 'em right off the bat. They're expecting a call by the end of the week."

"_I_ can impress them? I thought you were the one taking the lead on this."

"I would, but this isn't really my thing. You know I'm more the outdoors and public space kind of guy. Besides, you're the one with the contacts, and I'm still finishing up that report for Glendale." He leaned forward in his chair with a conspiratorial look. "And I ran into an old friend the other day who thinks he can get us some work on that mall they're proposing for downtown."

"Is that right? Something else on top of this groundwater project? Don't start overloading us, my friend."

Stan waved a hand. "I know how much work we're capable of, and I won't exceed it. Until we have a good enough income to hire some staff, that is."

"Now you're being ambitious," Alan muttered. He was a little worried that Stan was treating their new business more as a place for experimentation than as, well, a business. He'd always been better at getting new projects started than finishing up the old ones. And if Alan was going to be the one doing the work while Stan was bringing in the clients…that could lead to an imbalance in the workload pretty quickly.

"Nothing wrong with being ambitious." He must have seen the look on Alan's face, because he paused. "Hey, you know I'm gonna pass everything by you before I take on any work, okay? We can still turn this project down if you don't think we're up for it."

Alan shook his head. "No, you told them we would do it, and we have to stick to that. We don't want to get stuck with a bad reputation."

"All right." Stan cocked his head. "Look, I'm sorry if I overreached here. I'm just trying to get us off the ground, you know? By this time next year, I want Carter and Eppes to be the best new planning firm in the city!"

"Well, I'd settle for being solvent a year from now," Alan responded dryly. He held up a hand and went on, "You know me, Stan. I'm just showing my practical side."

"That's why we're gonna be great together," Stan grinned. "Optimism and practicality—what more could you want in a business partnership?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1. Constructive criticism and nitpicks welcome!

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Chapter 2  
Tuesday, November 15, 2005  
1:05 P.M.  
FBI Field Office

"So, have we got a line on these guys yet?" Don looked at the team members assembled around him.

David spoke up first. "All we know is that they entered the country two weeks ago on fake passports. Those names didn't register with the airline security databases, so they had no trouble boarding their flight from London. Once we knew they were here, we were able to go back and check the security cameras at Heathrow to see what flight they were on, but that's pretty much closing the barn door after the horse is gone."

Don nodded impatiently. "So where are they now?"

"The surveillance cameras at Union Station picked them up this morning," Megan answered. "The security guard watching the cameras thought they looked suspicious, and when he ran their images through our database, he came up with a match. But by the time he did that, they had left the station, and no one seems to know where they went."

"Great," Don said. "So you're telling me that we have two known terrorists running around Los Angeles, and no idea where they are."

"Actually," David said, "we have two people whose names are on a no-fly list running around Los Angeles. Strictly speaking, it hasn't been verified that they actually are terrorists." At Don's glare, he went on, "But, yeah, we're doing everything we can to find them. Colby's out trying to track down other surveillance cameras in the vicinity of the station, and I'm just about to run through a list of known contacts."

"Do we know of any particular targets that they might be trying to hit?"

Megan shook her head. "Like David said, these guys haven't officially been described as engaging in terrorist activities. Because of that, we have no way of knowing what kind of target they might be interested in, what kind of methods they might use, anything like that. We're working to share information with a few European agencies, but we're just getting started on that."

"All right," Don said, leaning back in his chair and sighing. "I want to hear back from you in four hours, no matter what you've found. There's a lot of pressure coming down on us to find these guys fast, before they can even think of doing anything on American soil."

"Sure thing," David replied. "We'll be back at five."

Don rubbed a hand over his eyes. He'd gotten a phone call a few hours ago from the LAPD, passing along information from their control room at Union Station. Usually, they didn't contact the FBI so quickly unless a crime had already been committed. But in this case, two men of questionable intentions had been spotted loitering in the station, which was on a watch list as a relatively hard target within Los Angeles. While Don had always been slightly amused to see No Loitering signs in Union Station (what else was a waiting room designed for?), he appreciated that the police had been able to tell the difference between two men waiting for a train and two men scoping out the train station.

Especially since it was unlikely that these two men in particular were simply waiting for the commuter train to Riverside. As David had said, they didn't have any sort of official record; they were just British citizens with family ties in the Middle East. However, they had been linked to the same mosque as the one the London subway bombers had frequented. He didn't know if that was enough to get them on the no-fly list alone, but it wasn't up to him to determine those circumstances, it was just up to him to find the two men.

Still, the fact that they had used fake passports to get into the country was a pretty good indication that something serious was going on. Now, it was up to Don and his team to find them and figure out what they were up to, along with any potential colleagues of theirs, before anything could happen.

A soft beep sounded from his computer, and he turned to see the e-mail icon blinking. When he opened the program, he saw a message from Charlie reminding him that he was supposed to be going over to the house tonight to help clean out the attic. Upon becoming owner of the house, Charlie had discovered a huge amount of stuff in the attic: old papers, mementos, boxes of things from their childhood that they'd never had to sort through because there had always been enough room. Being a hyper-responsible new homeowner, Charlie was concerned about the fire hazard that so much paper posed, and had asked Don and Alan to help him sort through it all. He had reluctantly agreed, but with what had come up this afternoon, it looked like they were going to have to go ahead without him.

He typed a short response to Charlie, and was not surprised when his cell phone rang a few minutes later. "Hey, Charlie," he said after flipping open the phone.

"So what's going on?" his brother answered without preamble.

"Something just came up that I really have to be on top of here. I know I said I'd be there, but this really has to take priority. If you want to go ahead and get started, just don't throw out any of my stuff, okay?"

"Do you need any help?" Charlie's voice was a little hesitant, like he knew he should ask but didn't really want to.

"Not yet, no. We just need to do some old-fashioned legwork here to bring in a couple of guys. Look, I'll try to stop by on the weekend, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Good luck with whatever it is."

"Thanks. See ya." Don flipped his phone shut without giving Charlie a chance to pry further. Charlie didn't often get overly inquisitive about his cases, but sometimes he'd drop little hints like saying "whatever it is" that meant he was not-too-subtly fishing for more information.

"Hey, Don. You should take a look at this."

He looked up as David approached, holding out a manila folder to him. "What is it?"

"Some of that infamous chatter that Homeland Security is always talking about. It's a transmission picked up yesterday, talking about activation and something to do with Los Angeles. It just came in by courier."

The folder open in his hands, he looked sharply up at David before he'd read anything. "Activation? You mean, like of a sleeper cell?"

The dark-skinned agent shrugged. "That's all they have right now," he said, gesturing to the folder. "But it does seem like a pretty big coincidence that this message was picked up on the same day that our two guys show up in the area."

"Yeah, it does. What kind of information does DHS have about sleeper cells here, anyway?"

"If they had information, don't you think they'd share it with us?"

David's question sounded almost naïve in the light of their earlier interactions with the Department of Homeland Security. He must have realized that, for he hurried on, "I know they don't tell us everything they hear, but in this case I think if they had something substantial, they would have let us know."

"I would hope you're right," Don replied. "Okay, thanks. I'll look this over."

David and nodded and hurried away. Don started paging through the four pieces of paper in the file. It was the transcription of an intercepted message, though he noticed that nowhere did it mention how the message had been intercepted, or the location of the speakers. Most of the message was an innocuous-sounding conversation between two men about their families in New York. When he went back and read it a second time, however, he began to notice some of the things that stood out and had probably flagged this conversation for further review. The word "activate" that David had mentioned earlier, which was not something that one normally used in conversation, unless there was a cell phone plan involved. And there were references to a couple of things in New York that didn't match his memories of visiting there: mention of a theater in a neighborhood that Don knew to be largely industrial, or a discussion about the length of city blocks in New York that came up with the incorrect answer of eight blocks per mile.

Of course, they simply could have gotten their numbers wrong, either the street or the number of blocks. In some way, it was ludicrous to think that just a few facts like these were enough to flag a conversation for review by the FBI. But again, he didn't know who the people were who were speaking, or why they had been chosen for interception in the first place, and it wasn't his place to worry about those things.

Don picked up the phone and dialed Peter Osmond at DHS. The man owed him a big favor, and a little more information about this transcript would go a long ways towards repaying it.


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter 3  
Wednesday, November 16, 2005  
2:55 P.M.  
Downtown Pasadena

The walk sign came on, and Alan started across Walnut Street. Checking his watch, he noted that he was going to be about five minutes late. 'Well, that was annoying,' he thought. It had only been a thirty minute walk to City Hall when he worked there. Either he was walking more slowly, or City Hall had gotten farther away. At any rate, the traffic lights wouldn't let him walk any faster now, so Ron Northrop would just have to wait.

He turned the corner, impressed as always by the commanding presence that was Pasadena's City Hall. In some ways, he had always thought it was even more impressive than the state capitol building. That was just an imitation of the Capitol in Washington, DC. This building, on the other hand, was a unique mix of the Spanish-style architecture found throughout the area and a more classical theme. There was a tall, red-tiled dome with a copper cupola on top that made it just as tall as the modern office buildings on the surrounding blocks. The building stretched the width of the block, but because of the height of the dome relative to the rest of the building, the mass was not overwhelming. He wondered if it had anything to do with that golden ratio Charlie was so fond of talking about.

As he crossed the broad plaza to the building's entrance, the thought crossed his mind of how strange it was to be there. Since retiring nearly two years ago, he had only been back one time to meet an old friend for lunch. He had certainly kept in touch with other former colleagues, but they had usually met somewhere outside the building. After that first return visit, he had felt so awkward and unneeded standing in the doorway of his old office that hereafter he had always suggested meeting at a restaurant down the street, so that Jack or Sam or Linda could take a break and get out of the office. If they knew what he was doing, they never let on.

But this wasn't a social call. After meeting with Stan the other night, he had business here with his replacement, the man who had moved up from being an assistant city planner upon Alan's retirement. He needed to ask for some information as a professional courtesy, and hope that his former role in city government would be enough to get him past some doors that seemed to be blocked to the public.

He entered the building, and started walking towards the planning department. Then a deep voice stopped him. "Excuse me, sir, can I help you?"

Alan turned to see a security guard seated behind a desk in the hallway. "I'm here to see someone in the planning department," he said. "It's all right, I know my way."

"You'll have to sign in and take a visitor's pass," the man said, tapping a clipboard that rested under his beefy hand.

He stopped in surprise. "Since when?"

The man shrugged. "It's the policy."

Sighing, Alan took two steps back and reached out for the clipboard. The man didn't move his hand. "I'll need to see some ID."

"Look, I worked in this building for 25 years. I don't think I'm much of a security risk." When the man's face didn't change expression, Alan grumbled and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "There," he said as he handed over his driver's license. "Happy?"

The guard looked it over, looked at him, and then handed back the license. "Extremely," he said dryly.

Alan signed the clipboard without further protest. When the man handed him a visitor's pass, he rolled his eyes, but took it and clipped it to his shirt pocket. "Have a nice day," he said with only the slightest touch of sarcasm in his voice as he walked away.

The planning department didn't look any different. There were a few new faces, but many of the same old ones, and it took him at least five minutes to say hello to everyone who greeted him. When he finally knocked on the door of his old office, it was ten after three.

"Come in," came the voice from inside.

Alan opened the door and stepped inside, quietly shutting it behind him when he saw the office's occupant was on the phone. He waited by the door, surreptitiously looking around to see what had changed. Surprisingly, it looked very similar to when he had occupied it. The collection of books was newer, but many of the titles were the same as those that were now sitting on the bookshelf in his living room. Charlie's living room, he reminded himself.

Ron Northrop gestured for him to take a seat, holding up a finger to indicate that he would be done with his conversation soon. Although from what Alan could hear, it wasn't much of a conversation, more like Ron listening to whomever was on the other end of the line. But in another minute or so, the blond man had wrapped up the discussion and hung up the phone. Then he stood and extended his hand across the desk piled high with papers. "Alan," he said, firmly shaking his hand. "How are you? It looks like retirement agrees with you."

"I can't complain," he said, releasing his hand and sitting back down. "I see you haven't run out of the building screaming yet."

The corner of the other man's mouth turned up. "No, but there has been a small amount of screaming involved at times. Mostly behind closed doors, or at least after hours. I don't know how you kept that calm demeanor of yours working in this madhouse all those years."

"Don't let the mayor hear you say things like that, or he'll think you're talking about him."

"No, it's not the city. It's every time I go to a public meeting and find the same seven or eight people whining about whatever it is that we're trying to accomplish. Sometimes I think they just consider it a sport."

Alan chuckled. "Now, now, for some of them I think it's the only entertainment they get. Just try not to take it personally, and you'll be fine."

"That's the voice of experience talking? I seem to recall having to talk you down after one or two bad meetings."

Alan gave him a pointed look. "I told you I was enjoying retirement, didn't I?"

The other man chuckled and leaned back in his chair. Not the old leather swivel chair that Alan had had, but a modern, sophisticated office chair with a high back and no arms. "So what brings you back here then? You said on the phone that it was a professional matter. If you're trying to come back, I hate to tell you, but I'm not giving up my office."

"Have no fear of that." He spread his hands wide. "I am doing the occasional consulting job, though, and I was hoping to get your help."

"If I can," Ron replied. "What's the project?"

Alan settled back in the chair. "You know that there've been more some problems with the city water supply lately. The wells they had to shut down again over by JPL."

"Yeah, that was just starting to explode when you retired, wasn't it? The second time, that is." In the early 1990s, the city had closed two wells until NASA figured out how to treat them for the volatile organic compounds that had been detected in amounts exceeding safety standards. Not long after the turn of the millennium, the discovery in the water supply of perchlorate, one of the components of rocket fuel, had led to those same two wells being closed again.

"Well, it had pretty much become NASA's responsibility at that point. Anyway, the point is, this little project I'm working on involves studying that plume of perchlorate and seeing how far it might spread in other circumstances."

"I didn't know you had training in groundwater hydrology, Alan. Have you been taking up new hobbies?"

"Let's just say my sons are rubbing off on me." Charlie's insatiable thirst for knowledge had always amazed him, and he and Margaret never could figure out which side of the family it had come from. Now that he had some time on his hands, Larry and Charlie had recommended some good introductory science texts that had him, if not understanding what the two academics were talking about, at least willing to ask them questions. Maybe that curiosity was an Eppes trait after all.

Besides, he figured that if all else failed, he could get Charlie to do some of the analysis for him.

Ron was rolling a pencil back and forth between his fingers. "So, what exactly is it you want from me?"

"I seem to recall the city was hiring a hydrologist to do a more complete study of the groundwater in the area. I was hoping to get a copy of that study, and maybe the data that he used."

Ron was shaking his head with a regretful expression. "I'm sorry, Alan, but I can't do that."

Alan cocked his head slightly to the side. "Why not? Isn't that public information?"

"It used to be." At Alan's raised eyebrows, he asked, "Why do you want this information?"

"I told you, I was hired by someone who's concerned about the perchlorate. They don't have the money to hire their own hydrologist, and I figured since the study has already been done..."

"Hired by whom?"

"Why does that matter?" When the blond man stared back at him without answering, he went on, "Okay, it's an environmental group that's working on restoring the Los Angeles River. They're concerned about potential contamination of the river and of drinking water supplies. He thought, and I thought so too, that I had contacts here that could help. Were we wrong?"

Ron sighed. "I really wish I could help you, Alan, but the truth is, that isn't public information anymore. We have to keep some things behind closed doors that we didn't before."

"Why? I mean, I understand that you can't just hand out information on the city water supplies to anyone who comes knocking on your door, but surely you can trust an old colleague."

"Of course I trust you, Alan. It's not that. But this group that hired you: how do you know that they're legit?"

"Because I trust Stan," Alan said automatically. Then he stopped and thought about it. Yes, he trusted Stan. But then he thought about what Don would say about this situation. Probably something like, "Come on, Dad, you don't know who those guys are. They might be just an environmental group, but unless you've actually met them, all you have to go by is what Stan said."

Ron must have seen the metaphorical light bulb go on over his head, because he said, "I hope you understand, Alan. I suppose it's partially a matter of liability, but more importantly, it's a question of public safety. Times have gotten more dangerous, and there's certain information that shouldn't be too easily accessible to the public."

"But what about the safety of the public who might be drinking contaminated water?" Alan leaned slightly forward in his chair.

"You always did have a little of an activist streak in you, didn't you? Look, like I said, I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

"Ron…"

They argued back and forth for a few more minutes, until it became apparent that Alan wasn't going to get what he had come there for. Trying to end the conversation on a positive note, he changed the subject to some of the projects he had handed off to Ron when he retired, and was pleased to hear that most of them were going through as he had planned.

As Ron showed him out, all the way to the desk where he turned in his pass and signed the clipboard again, the wheels in his head were already turning, wondering what other contacts he might have that could get him this information. Maybe Charlie or Larry knew someone through CalSci, since JPL was closely affiliated with the university. He understood Ron's reluctance to turn over potentially sensitive data, but now he was determined to get a hold of it, not just for their clients, but because it was becoming a bit of a challenge.

Margaret had always insisted that it was from him that the boys got their stubborn streak. On that, he knew she was right.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer and beta thanks in part 1. Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone; more, please!

Note: This is the part where you need to forget that you've seen "Bones of Contention"…

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Chapter 4  
Friday, November 18, 2005  
7:30 P.M.  
Eppes house

After three days, Don's team hadn't made a whole lot of progress. They had examined every second of videotape from all of the surveillance cameras in and around Union Station, but their quarry seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Further communication with MI-5, the FBI's counterpart in Great Britain, had been both fruitful and disturbing. Apparently the Brits had been looking for Tomas Ataud and Abraham Ferza for several months now in connection with the subway bombings in London last summer. Don had notified the MTA, and the transit police would be keeping a special watch out for their two suspects. In the meantime, they had brainstormed a list of potential contacts for the two men in Los Angeles, and were slowly working their way through that list. Nothing so far, though.

In the meantime, Don had decided that taking a short break from the case, at least for the evening, would probably clear his head and do him some good. So here he was at the house in order to finally start going through the stuff in the attic.

The front door swung open at his touch, and he paused for a moment, his instincts suddenly coming alert. "Charlie?" he called out cautiously.

"In the kitchen," came the response.

After firmly shutting the front door behind him, he followed his brother's voice back through the house. "Is there some reason the front door was open?" he asked, gesturing back in that direction.

Alan spoke from where he was seated at the table, his fork sinking into a slice of what looked like lemon meringue pie. "Oh, I just ran out to make sure the sprinklers had come on," he said, taking a bite of the pie. "I think you need to take a look at the door, Charlie. It doesn't swing shut as easily as it used to."

"_I_ need to take a look at the door." Charlie looked over from where he was loading the dishwasher. "Dad, you're much better at that sort of thing than I am."

"Oho, a few weeks ago it was my responsibility to do all the planning after volunteering _your_ house for the wedding." He loaded his fork with another bite of pie. "Besides, you should be learning how to do 'that sort of thing.' I'm not going to be around forever to do it for you, you know."

"He's got a point, Charlie," Don said, folding his arms and leaning against the doorway. "It is your house."

Charlie pointed a spatula at him. "You stay out of this," he said firmly before he dropped the utensil into the silverware holder.

Don spread his hands wide. "Just making an observation," he said. Before Charlie could respond, he went on, "Besides, whoever's responsibility it is, you need to make sure the front door is at least shut, if not always locked. This isn't Mayberry, you know."

"Are you ever off-duty?" Alan asked, using his fork to scoop up the last crumbs of graham cracker crust on his plate. "And do you want a piece of pie? I think there's still some in the fridge."

"No thanks, I'm good. And yeah, I'm off-duty; I'm here, right? But you still gotta lock your door, Dad. I know you'd like to think it's still the fifties, but you never know who's out there."

"You're right, Don," Charlie said, closing the dishwasher.

"Good." He turned back to his father. "So, Dad, Charlie told me you've got a big client?"

"Not that big, just the biggest so far." Alan rose to his feet and crossed the kitchen, re-opening the dishwasher to put his plate and fork inside. "Some environmental group concerned with possible contamination in the LA River. I was over at City Hall earlier this week, trying to get some information, but apparently they don't release that information to the public anymore."

"Yeah? What kind of information?"

"Oh, something to do with JPL and the perchlorate plume up there." Alan had a slight scowl on his face. "And I know for a fact that that information used to be in the public domain. I guess I can understand why they aren't willing to hand it out to just anyone, but someone who worked there for thirty years isn't just anyone, you know?"

"What's this environmental group called?" Don asked idly.

"Oh, let me see." Alan thought for a moment. "It wasn't Friends of the LA River, it was some smaller group. The River Protectors, I think."

"Sounds kind of militant," Charlie teased. "You sure you aren't consulting for some eco-terrorists without knowing it?"

Alan waved a dismissive hand. "That's what Ron Northrop said down at the planning office. Well, not in so many words, but it was his explanation for why he couldn't give me the report."

"He might have a point, Dad," Don said slowly, straightening from where he had been leaning against the doorway. "What do you know about this group?"

"Oh, not you, too. It's a group of people concerned about contamination of the river, not trying to poison our water supply. I'm sure Stan has checked them out."

Don gave him a level stare. Stan Carter had been a good friend of their father's for many years, and he was a great guy. But he was just as naïve as Alan was about people's capacity for evil. In some respects, that pleased Don: if his job consisted of protecting people like his father, it was nice to know that he and his colleagues did such a good job of it that Alan Eppes didn't have the suspicious nature of his older son. But it also made him a little frustrated at times at his father's naïveté.

He was starting to wonder how long it would take to run a quick background check, at least for his own peace of mind, when Alan said, "If it would make you feel better, why don't you take a look and see if they're in any of your databases."

Don hid a smile. "Sure, Dad, it won't take long. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

Charlie had been largely staying silent throughout the conversation, but now he stepped forward. "So, ready for the attic? We haven't started yet, you know. We were waiting for you."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that." Don had been secretly hoping that they had gotten a head start over the past couple of days. He really wasn't looking forward to doing this, and if it weren't for his supervisor telling him to go home and take a break, he would much rather be in the office, trying to track down Ataud and Ferza.

Then it struck him how odd that thought was. Would he really rather be out searching for terrorists than spending time with his family?

Charlie started the dishwasher, and then rubbed his hands together. "Well, we might as well go get started, huh?"

"You sure you don't want a piece of pie, Don? Or a beer?" Alan had one hand on the handle of the fridge, looking at him expectantly.

"No, really, I'm fine. Charlie's right, we should get started."

Charlie led the way as they trooped up the stairs to the attic. It wasn't a very large space; Charlie was the only one who could stand up completely, and that only in the very middle, where the eaves peaked overhead. It was as musty-smelling as Don remembered. The last time he had been up here, he was bringing up some boxes of stuff from Albuquerque that weren't going to fit into his new, smaller apartment. Funny how after three years, he hadn't missed any of that stuff. Maybe that meant it was time to throw it out.

He looked over at Charlie, who hadn't moved after pulling on the long string to turn on the bare light bulb overhead. He, too, looked lost in thought, and Don wondered exactly what memories were being evoked for him by the sights and sounds of the attic. Alan was the last one up the stairs, and he had paused on the next-to-last step, looking around as if he hadn't seen the place before.

Don wondered for at least the fourth time that day how much of the stuff Charlie wanted to go through had to do with their mother, and whether the three of them were going to be able to handle it.

"Well, there certainly is a lot to pick from, isn't there?" Alan's voice was overly cheerful as he looked around at the white bankers' boxes piled four and five deep around them. "Any preference as to where we should start, Charlie?"

Charlie looked lost for a second. "Well, I suppose the stuff on the top is the newest, right? Why don't we start there?"

"What about the older stuff?" Don asked. "I mean, if it's something that's been up here for years, it's more likely that it's something we can get rid of, right? If we haven't looked at it lately, it's less likely that it's important."

Charlie exchanged a glance with Alan, who shrugged. "Sure, Don, if that's what you want."

After half an hour, Don had sneezed at least a dozen times from the dusty boxes. His best find so far had been one of Charlie's old stuffed animals: a worn-out raccoon who'd obviously seen a lot of love in his time. He'd taken great delight in teasing his brother about it, until Alan had had to cut in and tell them to knock it off. They'd shared a conspiratorial smile, the gleam in Charlie's eye telling Don that he understood the irony of enjoying the scolding from their father for the behavior that had been all too typical of their years growing up together.

When Don found his own old teddy bear, he quietly put it in his "to keep" pile without saying a word.

After another half hour or so, he realized he hadn't heard any movement from his father's direction for several minutes. When he looked over to where he'd seen him last, he saw the top of his head as he sat on the floor, bent over a large box. He was holding a manila envelope in his hands, but he hadn't opened the clasp.

Don watched, holding his breath almost without realizing it, as his father slowly opened the envelope and slid out a stack of photographs. He couldn't see what they were pictures of, but he did notice that Alan only looked at a couple of them before his hands stilled around the pile. He briefly looked over at Charlie, who was engrossed in what looked like a box of old papers from their school days. "Hey, Don, look at this," he said, waving a stack at him. "Perfect score on my third grade spelling test. Probably the last time that happened."

Don held up a hand, his eyes remaining on their father, who still hadn't moved. He was about to say something when Alan spoke. "I, uh – " he broke off and dropped the envelope back in the box. "I think I hear the dishwasher making a noise downstairs. I'd better go check and see what it is." He abruptly stood up and clattered down the stairs, leaving the two brothers staring at each other.

"Was it something I said?" Charlie joked weakly.

Don gave him a brief glance, then walked over to look in the box that Alan had been sorting through, his footsteps creaking on the old floorboards. The box looked like it contained unsorted photographs that had never been put in an album. He reached down and picked up a couple, slowly leafing through them. He didn't remember seeing them before, although most of the people were familiar as either close or distant relatives.

He passed the photos on to Charlie as he finished looking at them, and soon heard a chuckle from his brother. "Nice hair Dad's got here, huh?"

"Yeah, I think he looks better now with less of it than he did when it was styled like that," Don agreed, casting a brief glance at the photo Charlie held. Then he turned his attention back to the pile that he held, including the manila envelope that his father had dropped just before leaving the room. He opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of photographs, and instantly closed his eyes. "Oh, man," he breathed.

"What is it?" Charlie's voice was sharp.

Wordlessly, Don handed over the stack of photographs, the one on top showing a beaming Alan in a tuxedo next to the newly-christened Margaret Eppes in her simple white wedding dress. When Charlie saw them, his face fell. "Is that what he — "

Don nodded. "That's what he was looking at." He spread his hands helplessly. "Has he even been up here since..."

Charlie lowered his hands, still clutching the pile of pictures. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I never even thought to ask. He never said anything when I suggested going through the attic, and so it never occurred to me that it might bother him." He slid the photographs back in the envelope and dropped it in the box, clearly upset with himself. "How stupid was that?"

Don briefly laid a hand on his shoulder. "You didn't know. I mean, it's always hard to tell with Dad, right? Whether or not something bothers him about Mom?" Of course, it was hard to tell with all of them, he added to himself. As forthright as the three Eppes men were with their emotions at times, they also knew how to keep their cards close to their chests. Charlie had always had a harder time with that, wearing his heart on his sleeve as much as their mother had. Don had perfected his stoic exterior as part of his job, but then he had always kept things to himself a little more, a trait he had definitely inherited from their father.

"I feel like I should go apologize to him," Charlie said quietly. "Except I don't know if that would make it worse."

"Just let him be for now," Don advised. "He wants a moment to himself. I wouldn't be surprised if he was back up here in half an hour, pretending it never happened."

Except Alan never did come back upstairs. When Don and Charlie finally called it a night a couple of hours later, tired of sneezing at the dust on everything, there was a note on the table telling them he had gone to bed, and he would see them later.

"Isn't it kinda early for Dad to be in bed?" Don asked, noting that it was still before ten.

Charlie shrugged. "Kind of, yeah. I'm often still out in my office or the garage, though, so I don't really know."

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to hear that. "Well, I should be heading home. Call me tomorrow if there's anything wrong, okay?"

Charlie nodded, still looking a little haunted. "I should have known this was a dumb idea."

"Hey, it's not your fault." Don looked him in the eye. "Dad'll be fine, okay? And we came up with a pile of stuff to give to Goodwill, so it was a good use of an evening. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"I guess," his brother reluctantly assented.

Don clapped him on the shoulder and asked, "You all right, buddy?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said heavily. "I'm just going to take a shower and go to bed."

"All right. Talk to you later, then." He let himself out the front door, closing it firmly behind him, and waited until he heard Charlie turn the lock before heading out to his car.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer and beta thanks in part 1.

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Chapter 5  
Monday, November 21, 2005  
9:15 A.M.  
Wilson Street, Pasadena

The light turned green, and Charlie started pedaling. He had briefly considered driving to school now that he had his license, but it seemed wasteful to drive only a few miles when he had been biking for years. Besides, the journey was downhill nearly all the way, so although he got his exercise on the way home, it was a nice coast in the mornings.

He carefully signaled at the stop sign, and then turned into campus. Pedaling much more slowly on the sidewalks, he nodded at a few students as he passed, and then had to come to a stop and walk his bike when the foot traffic became too thick. He locked his bike in its usual spot, at the rack in front of the math building, but instead of turning inside the stuccoed edifice, he turned back the way he'd come, walking down the long arched colonnade to the geology building.

He was really going to have to find himself not just his own work to do, but some consulting outside of his family, he thought dryly. First Don, and now Dad. Two nights ago, he'd found his father sitting in front of a pile of paperwork, muttering to himself as he looked through it. "Is that related to your consulting gig?" he'd asked as he was passing through the dining room.

"Yeah, it is. I can't seem to get the information I want the old-fashioned way, so I'm going to have to get official about it."

Charlie had dropped into a chair across from him and taken a closer look at the papers. "A Freedom of Information Act request?"

"That's right." Alan looked at him over his glasses. "I'm looking for information that used to be publicly available, and if personal connections won't do it, I'll have to make a formal request."

"That can take a long time, though, can't it?"

Alan shrugged. "I don't have much choice, do I? I have a client who wants to know about the hydrology of the upper Arroyo Seco and the chemical release patterns of JPL, and if the city won't tell me..."

"Dad, how did you get involved in this? Do city planners have much to do with groundwater?"

"City planners have much to do with everything. You'd be surprised at all the things I had to learn to be able to do that job. Just a little bit of each subject, but a little bit of a whole lot of subjects. And most of it on the job, too." He shook his head and put his pen down. "I think you have to have a lot more training ahead of time before going into the field nowadays."

Charlie remembered wondering exactly how to rephrase his question. He'd finally settled on, "So this environmental group: are they going to analyze the data themselves, and they just want you to get it for them?"

Alan fixed him with another look. "Do I have any idea what I'm doing, is what you want to know." When Charlie shook his head and started to protest, he held up a hand and went on, "I'll admit, it's not my specialty. But yes, they want someone to tell them what the aquifer is like, what kind of contaminants have been released up there, and how far they might have spread. I don't think they're worried about the wells in Pasadena the same way the city is; they want to know what might have gotten into the Arroyo and down to the L.A. River, or into the groundwater closer to downtown. I know the city has that information, I remember seeing the report. I just can't get my hands on it anymore."

"You don't happen to remember who did the research, do you?" When Alan shook his head, he went on, "I'm not the only CalSci professor who does consulting, you know. Raymond Anderson in the geology department is a hydrologist who works with cities and water departments. If he didn't do the report himself, maybe he knows who did."

Alan gave him a grateful smile. "That would be great, Charlie."

He realized too late that his father had thought he was volunteering to talk to the professor for him. Figuring that he still owed him for his _faux pas_ of the previous evening, he ducked his head and accepted his "assignment."

He'd considered carefully how to approach Dr. Anderson. From what Larry had said about him, he was the kind of person who was a stickler for regulations; if information was supposed to be kept confidential or restricted in some way, he would follow the letter of the law. Charlie had decided in the end to be as straightforward as he could without mentioning that his father had already tried and failed to get the report in question from the city.

The professor's door was ajar, and Charlie knocked as he poked his head in. "Dr. Anderson?"

"Yes?" A short, red-haired man looked up from his computer. "Charles Eppes, right?"

"That's right." He entered at the other man's wave and took the indicated seat in front of the desk. "Um, like I said in my e-mail, I was hoping you could help me out with a favor. Have you done any studies on the perchlorate plume from JPL?"

"Yes, I have. The latest was just a month or so ago. NASA is worried that the plume might be spreading far enough to endanger a third well." He took off his round glasses and looked at Charlie. "You said this is for a consulting project?"

"That's right. My father has been hired by an environmental organization that's concerned about water quality in the L.A. River."

"You're coming at this third-hand, then. Why couldn't they get that information themselves?"

Charlie blinked. He hadn't anticipated that question. If he said it was because they wanted to take advantage of his dad's connections, Anderson would wonder why that had failed. But the more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed.

He realized he'd left the other man waiting without an answer. Just as he was about to say something, however, the hydrologist spoke. "This is a pretty controversial issue, you know. I get contacted about it a lot. It really becomes apparent who's done their homework before they come talk to me."

"I'm sure." It wasn't unusual for CalSci professors to be in the news with regards to their work; not just research results, but their public outreach. Every time the L.A. Times did an article on earthquakes in southern California, one of the university's eminent geologists was sure to be quoted. He was sure that Dr. Anderson had his fair share of interviews as well with regards to his area of research, and that he often spent more time explaining the basics than he would like. "That must be frustrating."

The older man waved a hand. "Most of the time, it's fine. Like last week; the regular science reporter from the Times was doing a follow-up story, but since he already knows his stuff pretty well, there was no problem. It was the other two guys who drove me up the wall." He chuckled and shook his head. "I'm getting paranoid in my old age. They claimed to be visiting researchers, but they left me wondering if they weren't really some kind of terrorists or something."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "What makes you say that?" he asked, keeping his voice level. Maybe he was just being paranoid, too, but the time he had spent working with Don had taught him that even offhand comments like the one had just heard could be important.

"Oh, I'm being silly, I'm sure. It was just that they clearly knew something about hydrology, but had no clue about the situation here. They were asking all sorts of obvious questions that anyone with the most basic understanding of Southern California geology would have already known the answer to. Now, we certainly get lots of visiting scientists here who are experts in some other area than California, but most of them are at least aware of the terranes and the alluvial fans that contribute significantly to the structure of the aquifers. These two..." He shook his head. "They understood everything once I explained it, but it just struck me as odd."

"Are they here at CalSci for the semester?"

Anderson shook his head. "They said they were visiting at UCLA, but that they were in the area and wanted to ask me a few questions as one of the premier hydrologists in the region." He shrugged modestly. "I'm flattered they thought so, but I'm not sure I told them anything they couldn't have found by reading a good book."

"What kind of questions were they asking?" Charlie leaned forward slightly in his chair.

"The same kind of information you asked about in your e-mail. They didn't know there was a report that had been prepared for the city like you did, though."

"Did you give them a copy?" The other professor was regarding him quizzically, and Charlie suddenly became aware of the interrogatory tone that his voice had taken on. "I mean, I'm sure you did, if that's what they were interested in."

Anderson slowly shook his head. "I did that report a couple of years ago, when NASA first released the information about the leak. But since then, the city decided that for reasons of public safety, it should be kept confidential. So no, I don't go around handing out copies to anyone who asks."

Just what his father's successor had told him. All Charlie hoped now was that he wasn't just anyone. "That's a good policy. I mean, if the report is about accidental contamination getting in Pasadena's water supply, you don't want to make that information accessible to someone who might want to deliberately contaminate the wells."

"That's right." Anderson fixed him with a look. "Which is why I'm sure you understand that I can't give it to you."

Charlie pressed his lips together. "Dr. Anderson, I do understand your concern, but surely you can trust a fellow colleague."

"I do trust you. But you don't want it for yourself, you want it for someone I know nothing about. If these environmentalists want to know about the likelihood of the perchlorate reaching the Los Angeles River, they should come and ask me themselves."

Charlie tried to argue for a few more minutes, but had no success. The hydrologist was sticking to his guns, and was not going to let the report that Alan wanted out of his sight. He finally left, frustrated and understanding at the same time.

Then he spent the rest of the day doing two things: trying to determine how easily he could re-construct Anderson's work, and wondering if it was a good idea to do so without learning a little more about Alan's clients first. Maybe he needed to give his brother a call.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1.

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Chapter 6  
Thursday, November 17, 2005  
10:15 P.M.  
Eppes house

Alan leaned back in the dining room chair and rubbed his temples. The numbers in front of him were starting to swim before his eyes. He checked his watch. 'Well, no wonder,' he thought. He idly wondered where Charlie was, then reminded himself for the umpteenth time that his son was a grown man who could take care of himself. He knew it was hard for any parent to let their child go; it had certainly been hard with Don. But since he and Margaret had to watch over Charlie because of his youth and small size, it was even harder to let go of the habit.

Just then, he heard a key in the lock, and the man in question walked in. "Hey, Dad," he said as he slung his backpack off his shoulder and shut the door behind him.

"Late night with the chalkboard, huh?"

He was rewarded with a tired smile. "Something like that. I've been working through this theorem on back-propagated delta rule networks and trying to relate it to the Gaussian functions that most closely replicate certain behaviors in the brain. Unfortunately, at some point my own neural networks got a bit overloaded, I think." He dropped into the chair opposite Alan and rubbed his eyes, looking for a moment like the little boy Alan had been thinking about, despite the scientific terminology he had been spouting.

"At least you know when to quit for the night. I seem to have forgotten how to do that." He gestured at the pile of papers in front of him. "Although I think if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear my brain powering down for the night."

Charlie smiled. "What're you working on?" he asked as he leaned forward and tried to read the papers upside down. "Is this for that same job?"

"Yes, it is. Since you didn't have any more luck than I did getting the information, though I am grateful to you for trying, I figured I'm going to have to do what you do all the time: re-derive it."

Charlie's eyebrows lifted. "But you don't have the hydrological data, do you?"

"Aha!" Alan held up a finger. "I thought so, too. But then I remembered after talking to Ron that I had a whole pile of the stuff. See, years ago, before your Dr. Anderson came to town, we had to do a lot of this kind of work ourselves. We went out and made all kinds of measurements, ran a few tests with injecting dye into the groundwater system at various places, and worked with Pasadena Water and Power to come up with the results. It was before there were ever any problems discovered up at JPL. We wanted to have a baseline in case we ever did need to compare data, and a few years later, as it turned out, we did."

His son's expression was still slightly skeptical. "But surely all that data would be just as inaccessible as the more recent results."

"If it were in some dusty filing cabinet at City Hall, yes. But when the city went to its GIS system a few years ago, they input the data into the computer, backed it up on CD, and got rid of the paper. At least, they were going to get rid of the paper until I suggested we store it offsite as another backup. They couldn't find any room at City Hall, so I just lugged it all home. No one thought of it when I retired, including me. I'd forgotten all about it until just this week. It's been sitting up in the attic all this time."

"The attic, huh?" Charlie's voice was cautious. "So you went back up there?"

"Yes, and you should be glad." He nodded at the eight banker's boxes piled against the dining room wall. "I found a lot of stuff that should be at my office, now that I have an office again, and out of your way."

Charlie nodded, and dropped his eyes to the table. "Dad, about the attic..."

Alan let out a sigh, knowing what he was going to say and hoping to head it off. "Charlie, it's not a big deal."

"Yes, it is." He looked up suddenly, and the emotion that was visible in his eyes reminded Alan so much of his late wife that he briefly had to look away. "Dad, I want to apologize. I didn't think about, well, about how hard it might be to go through some of that stuff. I feel like I forced you to do something you weren't ready for, and I'm sorry."

"I thought I _was_ ready," he replied quietly. When Charlie looked at him, he went on, "I mean, it's been two years. I hadn't looked at a lot of that stuff since your mother died, and I thought I would be okay with it." He'd had quite the mental debate with himself after Charlie suggested cleaning out the attic, torn between wanting to move on with their lives, especially since his sons seemed okay with it, and worrying that some small thing was going to set him off. It turned out that the latter had won out. "It was just...you see, a week or so before she died, your mother asked me to sit down with her and look at our wedding pictures." He paused and took a deep breath.

"Dad, you don't have to..." Charlie reached across and put a hand on his forearm.

He shook his head briefly and said, "It's okay. We, um, we reminisced a bit, and that was when she made me promise that I would try to meet someone else. It took a while for her to talk me into it, but eventually I agreed, more to make her happy than because I really meant it." He stared off into the distance for a moment, knowing that he remembered that conversation word-for-word, an ability he didn't usually have. At the time, he had thought they still had more time. But Margaret had known somehow, and had extracted his promise while she still could. Ten days later, she was gone.

"Anyway," he went on, "I hadn't really thought of that since. Not what she said to me that day, because I've thought about that a lot," he hastened to say, casting a quick glance at his son, who was looking slightly uncomfortable. "I've thought about it a lot," he repeated, "and it's still a huge effort for me to date someone. I know that if your mother hadn't given me the kick in the pants that she did, I wouldn't be doing it."

"Dad, really, it's okay." Charlie looked down at the table. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"No, it's all right, Charlie. I mean, yes, it threw me the other day when I came across those old pictures, but that's going to happen from time to time. Sometimes things come up to the surface when you don't expect it, that's all. Like last week, when I was looking out the window and saw the maple tree across the street starting to turn color. It made me think of your mother and how she always said she missed the East this time of the year. I always suspected that was one of her main reasons for going along to Princeton with you, so she could see the fall colors again."

"Dad." Charlie raised his head and took a shaky breath. "I'm glad that you're okay talking about it. But maybe I don't want to hear it."

He stared for a moment. He had assumed that because Charlie had been the one to suggest cleaning out the attic, he had thought through the ramifications of sorting through the mementos stored up there, and he was okay with it. In fact, he remembered being the only one of the three of them visibly upset while they were up there the other day.

Then the words he had just said came back to him. Sometimes things came up to the surface when you didn't expect it.

He was opening his mouth to apologize when the doorknob suddenly rattled. They looked at each other, startled. Then a key rasped in the lock, and a moment later, Don stuck his head inside. When he saw them sitting at the table, he looked surprised. "You're still up?"

Alan returned his look, grateful for the relief from the tension in the room. "Were you hoping to sneak some food out of the fridge and leave with no one the wiser?"

Don rolled his eyes as he came inside and closed the door behind him. "No, I was hoping to get the equations that Charlie owed me and then head home for the night."

"Equations?" Charlie quickly turned around in his chair. Alan could tell that he, too, was glad for the interruption. "What equations?"

"Don't you remember?" Don's eyes were boring into Charlie's, but when he briefly looked Alan's way with a guarded expression, Alan figured out what was going on.

"I think I forgot to put away some of the leftovers from dinner," he said, rising to his feet. "You boys can go ahead and talk."

"Dad, it's okay." Charlie waved him back down. "Don, I'm sorry, but I didn't have a chance to get to that today. It's on my agenda for first thing tomorrow, I promise."

"That's fine." Don dropped into the third chair at the table. "I was going to take them if you had them, but if you don't, then take your time."

Alan knew his expression must be mirroring Charlie's puzzled features. Don rarely told his brother to take his time on a case, and if it was something sensitive enough that they couldn't tell their father about it, it was even more likely to be urgent.

"Did something happen on the case?" Charlie asked.

Alan watched as Don looked over at him, and then gave a short nod. "Yeah. We caught the guys."

"Your no-fly-list guys?" Alan asked. When Don gave him a strange look, he said, "You two were talking a little loudly the other night. Don't worry, I don't pass on what I overhear."

"I know that, Dad." Don shook his head exasperatedly, probably at himself for being indiscreet rather than at Alan for overhearing. "Yeah, we found them. We had a tail on one of their suspected potential contacts, and they showed up this afternoon. The contact got away, but our two guys didn't. We're letting them stew overnight before we start in on them tomorrow."

"Do you think they were planning to do something here?" Charlie asked quietly.

"That's what we have to find out. I've got David and Colby going over the phone records of their contact to see who he's been in touch with over the past week. Maybe there's something there. It's hard to tell, though." Don leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head. "They were only on the no-fly list because of their associations, not because they've actually done anything wrong yet."

"But if they got into the country with fake passports, surely they weren't here on vacation." Alan had overheard that detail too, and it was right about then that he told himself it was none of his business and he should go to another room of the house where he couldn't overhear the conversation between his sons.

Don gave him a quick look, but said only, "Yeah, there's that. Still, all the information we have says they were only in the early planning stages. Of what, we don't know, but the odds are they weren't here to implement any kind of plan, at least not any time soon."

"So you don't need those equations if you've caught them, right?"

"Well, I thought the point was to, what did you call it, draw a net around them. So, yeah, we'd still like to know who else we might catch with that net. But with these two in custody, it isn't quite as urgent."

Charlie nodded, and then Don turned and looked at him as if he had just remembered something. "Dad, have you actually met these clients of yours?"

He shook his head. "I haven't talked to them at all, and Stan has only talked to them by phone. Why? Did you find out something?"

"No, not really. They're on the up-and-up, as far as we can tell. Pretty small group, though: only five members. Must be some rich guys behind it if they can afford to hire you."

"I already had this conversation with your brother," he replied somewhat grumpily. "We aren't carrying out extortion here, we're running a business."

"I know that," Don answered with a smile. "Just teasing you. How's it going, by the way?"

"Well, that's what I'm working on here." He indicated the piles of papers spread out before him. "I'm thinking I might have to give it up and hire Charlie on as a subcontractor."

"Dad, you don't have to do that," Charlie protested. "I'm not going to charge you to run some equations."

"So how come you don't work for me for free?" Don leaned his elbows on the table. "I'm family too, you know."

"You're not a small business owner trying to get up and running," Alan retorted. "We need all the help we can get."

"Oh, so that's how it is." Don's face creased into a smile. "It's probably better that way. At the rates he charges..." he tilted his head towards his brother.

"Hey, I charge the FBI the going rate for consultants of my caliber, and I've never heard any complaints about it." Charlie was glaring back at his brother. "If you don't think I'm worth it, you can hire someone else."

"Whoa, take it easy. Charlie, you're the best we could hire, and don't you forget it." Alan watched the quick changes of expression across both of his son's faces: Don from teasing to concerned, and Charlie from wounded to reassured. Then they exchanged quick smiles, and Don turned back to him. "So yeah, I ran a quick check on your River Protectors, and they seem to be legit. At least, they're a registered non-profit organization with the state of California, and they've been around for about a year, headquartered in Glendale. Probably run out of somebody's house or something."

Alan regarded his son with amused tolerance. "So should I present my client list to you on a regular basis, or are you going to want to do a background check before I hire them in the first place?"

"Come on, it's not like that." Don waved a hand at him. "I thought it was an unusual name, that's all. I'm not going to interfere with your business unless I see something that catches my eye."

"Well, I appreciate you not making a big deal out of it." Alan was going to say something more, but then he saw a curious expression on his younger son's face. "Charlie? What is it?"

He was accustomed to Charlie intently staring off into space as if there were numbers and figures written on a blackboard that only he could see. But this was different, the kind of light-bulb-coming-on look that anyone got from time to time. "It's something that caught my eye," he said slowly as he turned to Don. "Or rather, my ear. I can't believe I forgot about it, since I walked out of Dr. Anderson's office thinking about calling you right away. But then I ran into one of my graduate students on the way back to my office, and it totally slipped my mind."

"Charlie, what are you talking about?"

He shook his head slightly. "It's probably nothing. But when I talked to Dr. Anderson last week to see if he'd give me the report that Dad wanted, he said two men were there earlier looking for it, too. He made some kind of joking comment about the likelihood of them being terrorists, and that's why it struck me. I'm sorry that I didn't remember it earlier, Don."

Don had removed a small notebook from his pocket and was jotting down what Charlie said. "So who is this guy?"

Alan broke in to explain who the CalSci hydrologist was and his connection to Alan's project. Don asked both of them a few more questions, then leaned back in his chair. "Looks like you're not out of the woods yet, Dad," he said in what was to Alan a surprisingly serious tone. "I'll stop by CalSci tomorrow and ask Dr. Anderson a few more questions. You haven't talked to these River Protectors of yours directly, have you?"

Alan shook his head. "But Don, why would they go to this hydrologist directly if they've hired me to find the same information?"

"I don't think they have." Don regarded him seriously as he stood up and stuffed the memo pad back in his jacket pocket. "I think there might be somebody else out there looking for the same information. You be careful with this project of yours, okay?"

He waved a dismissive hand at Don. "Anyone says anything about dropping something into the water supply, I'll let you know. Okay?"

Don opened his mouth, then stopped. "Okay, Dad. It's late and maybe I'm being overcautious. Just let me know if anything strange happens."

Alan nodded his assent. Then Charlie rose to walk Don to the door and discuss the equations he was supposed to have produced, and Alan started neatly stacking his papers on one side of the table. He'd been looking forward to getting this business off the ground for several months now, and he wasn't too keen on having any remotely shady dealings attached to it. He'd have to look over the work he was doing in the morning, when his head was clearer, and try to figure out if there was any illegitimate reason for it to be done.

Besides, he thought, if someone were going to try to poison the water supply, why would they hire someone to figure out how to do it for them? Wasn't that kind of risky? He looked up to ask Don that question, but the front door was closed. A moment later, he heard the roar of Don's SUV starting up, and he sighed. He'd have to ask him later.

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	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1.

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Chapter 7  
Friday, November 19, 2005  
10:05 A.M.  
FBI field office

Upon entering the office, Don grabbed the first junior agent he could find who didn't look exceptionally busy. He'd visited Charlie's Dr. Anderson that morning along with a sketch artist and gotten descriptions and drawings of the two men he'd spoken to, and he needed them to be run through the FBI's databases as soon as possible. The young agent had nodded earnestly and headed off to run the search, Don looking after her and wondering if she could really be old enough to be an FBI agent. Shaking his head, he headed for the next most important thing on his list.

"Morning, Megan. How's it going?" he asked as he entered the room.

The slender agent yawned and looked at her watch. "It is still morning, isn't it?"

"Sorry to bring you in so early."

"Says the man who got to roll in at ten, not 4 A.M." Her smile told him she didn't mean it harshly. "It's not going anywhere yet. David and I have been taking turns with Ataud, and Granger wanted Ferza all to himself. They haven't said a word, though. I think they're going to be tough nuts to crack."

"Anything from their phone records?"

She yawned again and shook her head, reaching for a file folder on the table next to the monitor that showed David Sinclair looming over a short man seated in the room beyond the glass partition. "Take a look. Nothing jumped out at us, but we're running down all of the numbers in there to see who they've contacted since these two guys flew into town."

"Second layer of Charlie's search tree, huh?" When Megan nodded, he went on, "You think Colby needs a break?"

She gestured towards the other monitor. "You tell me."

Don leaned down and peered at the small screen. Two men were seated at a table, both unmoving and unspeaking. Colby was just staring at their suspect, who was looking at a point somewhere behind the agent's head. Don watched for a moment, but neither of the men moved a muscle. His brow crinkled. "How long has he been doing that?"

She checked her notepad. "Going on half an hour now. I'd say he was sleeping with his eyes open, but he blinks once in a while."

He chuckled. "One of those interrogation techniques he learned in Afghanistan?"

"I've never seen anything like it, but if a staring contest gets us useful information..." She shrugged.

"Just don't let him hear you call it that," Don said, looking over at the other monitor. "Have you and David both been in there at once?"

"I'm still not entirely sure how to play it with him," she said, nodding at Tomas Ataud. "I think he's the kind of guy who's going to completely ignore a woman, so I'm better off as Good Cop, since that's the role he's going to assign to me anyway. David seems to be doing just fine in the other role," she said as the African-American man slammed his hand on the table right in front of Ataud, who flinched slightly but made no reply.

"Well, we've got to keep at it. They've already shown their hand by refusing to say a word," Don said, looking through the one-way glass. "If they weren't trained in some kind of counter-interrogation tactics, they would at least be pleading their innocence by now."

Megan nodded. "So we have something, we just don't know what."

Don pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Let me give it a shot." He left the room and walked around the corner to the entrance to the interrogation room. Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing himself, he ran his ID badge through the electronic slot and opened the door.

David was still leaning over the other man, who was looking down at the table in stubborn silence. He looked up at Don's entrance, and Don gave him a short nod. "Take a break," he said in clipped tones, holding the door open.

David looked at him for a moment. Then he slowly stood up and gave Ataud a last glare before silently striding out of the room and pulling the door shut with a decisive slam.

Don stayed where he was for a few seconds, regarding the other man. Tomas Ataud had close-cropped curly black hair, skin only a shade darker than Don's own, and no features that betrayed his Lebanese heritage unless you looked closely. He was wearing a navy blue flannel shirt and jeans, and his cuffed hands were resting on the table in front of him. He didn't turn his head, and it took Don a second to realize that he was using the mirror to size Don up. When he saw Don's eyes on him, he looked back down at the table.

"Tomas Ataud," Don said, starting forward. "Why did you enter the United States on a false passport?"

As expected, the other man gave no reply. Don dropped into the hard-backed chair opposite him and said, "Did you know you were on the list of persons who are not approved to travel to the U.S.?" No response. "Do you know why you're on that list?"

After years of interrogations, Don had learned a variety of strategies for dealing with uncommunicative suspects. Dealing with his own frustration was often the first step in the process. Asking questions of someone who was doing their best to pretend you weren't in the room could get really old, really fast. It often led agents to start shouting out of frustration, which was sometimes an effective tactic, and sometimes not. He didn't think it would work here, so he forced himself to keep a lid on his emotions.

He opened the file folder he was still carrying. "You haven't contacted too many people since you've been here, according to your phone records. One call from your cell phone, three calls from your hotel. One of the hotel calls was to your buddy's cell, the other one to a pizza joint. Don't tell me you flew all the way here for the pizza."

Ataud's dark eyes were focused on Don, but his facial expression didn't change.

Don leaned slightly forward. "See, you've already made one mistake. Two, actually, if you count being caught on the surveillance tape. But you've screwed up since you were brought in here. So has your buddy next door. You know why?"

There might have been a flicker of anger in the other man's eyes, but Don wasn't sure if it was just a trick of the light. "You're playing this all wrong. You were brought in here on a relatively insubstantial charge. Not that we take it lightly when someone tries to sneak across our borders, but I'm sure you could have tried to talk your way out of it. But no, you've taken the wrong approach by clamming up like this." He leaned forward a little more. "Now we know you've got something going on here, Ataud. And we're not going to give up until we find out what it is. You've made sure of that."

The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, and he spoke a single word. "Try."

Don abruptly stood up. "And that was mistake number three. Taunting the people who can make your life miserable. Now is when things start getting serious."

He was surprised to actually get a reply, although the cool, sardonic tone was as frustrating as the words themselves. "Unless you are planning on taking me to Guantanamo, I don't think there is anything...serious...you can do to me."

Don placed his hands deliberately on the table and leaned close to the other man's face, letting his own expression go cold and hard. He spoke deliberately. "You would be surprised."

He held that position for a moment longer, then pushed back off the table and gathered the file folder he had brought in. "I'll be back," he said as he strode to the door. David had obviously been watching from the other room, because he timed his opening of the door perfectly, allowing Don to continue out without breaking stride, while he himself re-entered for another try. Don recognized the mask falling into place over his fellow agent's features as he went past him into the room. He almost felt sorry for Ataud. Almost.

Back in the monitoring room, he dropped into the chair beside Megan and tossed the folder back on its pile, running a hand across his face as if to wash away the persona he'd adopted during the interrogation. "You're right. He's going to be tough. Not that we didn't expect it, but still."

She nodded agreement. "We're working to contact his family in London, see if they can give us any better idea as to why he might be here. His parents emigrated from Lebanon twenty-five years ago, and he and Ferza have lived all their lives in the U.K. He has a younger brother who's not on any watch lists, so that's probably worth checking out."

Don opened his mouth to say something else, but was distracted by the monitor showing the room where Colby was interrogating Ferza. "Hey, turn up the volume on that, Megan."

The suspect was saying something in a foreign language, in a regular and steady voice. By the rhythmic nature of the syllables and what they knew about the man, Don guessed it was verses of the Koran. But the weird thing was, Colby was speaking right along with him, his gaze never leaving the other man's.

The two of them watched in bewilderment for a moment, and then it began to make sense. Ferza's voice grew steadily louder, as if he were trying to drown out his interrogator, but Colby's volume increased right along with him. He spoke faster and faster, to no avail. Finally, he stopped, and the room was deafeningly quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward and spoke in rapid-fire Arabic, gesturing angrily. Colby looked at him for a moment, and then spoke one or two quiet words in response. Then he rose from his chair and walked to the door.

Don exchanged a glance with Megan, but before either of them could say something, Colby was standing in the doorway. "You saw that?" he asked. His eyes had an intenseness to them that Don had only seen when they were about to go into a tactical situation, and his breathing was coming a little faster than it should.

"Have a seat, Granger," Megan said with what sounded to Don like calculated casualness.

His eyes flicked to hers, but he didn't move.

"What was that?" she asked, gesturing to the monitor. "Arabic? I thought Farsi or Pashtu would have been more useful in Afghanistan."

Colby gave a short nod. "Most Muslims believe that the Koran needs to be read in its original language. A lot of the guys we ran into were reciting verses as a kind of mantra, so eventually we learned to beat them at their own game." A flicker of something Don couldn't quite read passed across his eyes. "It shook Ferza up a bit. I'm letting him think it over before I go back in there."

"You should take a break," Don said, standing up and looking at him more closely. "Let him think it over for a couple of hours."

Colby shook his head firmly. "That's not the way to deal with these guys. Hard intensity, in their face until they break. That's the way to go. Believe me, it works."

"We're not talking Taliban soldiers here, Colby, we're talking two guys who aren't supposed to be in the country but who haven't done any criminal activities as far as we know."

The other agent's eyes flashed, and Don almost took a step back. But he laid a hand on Colby's arm instead, and said in a low tone, "Believe me, I appreciate your intensity in there." He jerked a thumb towards the monitor. "I think it's going to get us results. But I want to make sure that you're here, with us."

He got no reaction for a moment. Then the muscles under his hand relaxed, and Colby leaned slightly against the doorjamb. "Yeah, I'm here," he said, passing a hand over his eyes. "Maybe I will take that break."

"Mind if I come along?" Megan stood up and stifled a yawn. "I could use a cup of real coffee."

"Making sure I don't go mental on you, Reeves?"

Don took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest, amused at the byplay between his agents. Megan replied, "I'm just looking for a cup of coffee, Granger."

Colby regarded her for a moment, then jerked his head backwards. "All right, let's go."

He watched them walk down the hall, trading a few comments about their respective suspects. Then he heard a voice behind him in the hallway. "Agent Eppes?"

He turned to see the same young woman to whom he had given Dr. Anderson's sketches earlier that morning. "Hey, Janice. Have you got something?"

She nodded, handing him a printout of a California driver's license. "One of the men in those sketches you gave me was in the LAPD database from a routine traffic stop a couple of years ago. I got his driver's license number and ran it with the state databases."

He looked over the printout. Ryan Mott was thirty years old according to his license, with an address in Covina. The black-and-white picture showed a man with close-cropped hair and the faint line of a scar running down his left cheek. "Good work, Janice."

"Actually, there's more." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I ran his social security number, and his most recent place of employment came up. It seemed like a coincidence, so I went ahead and gave them a call."

"And…?"

She handed him a second sheet of paper. "Ryan Mott was employed at the same Domino's Pizza that Ataud called from his hotel room."

Don scanned the page of Mott's employment history, recognizing the address at the end of the list. "You said 'was employed'."

She nodded and blew her wispy blond bangs out of her eyes. "He quit the next day. The store manager is looking through the records right now to verify that he was on that particular delivery, but it seems likely."

He nodded slowly. "That's great work, Janice. Thank you very much."

The other agent gave him a small smile, then said, "Agent Eppes, does this mean what I think it means?"

He regarded her for a moment. Janice Evans had been working at the L.A. field office for about three months, if he remembered correctly, fresh out of Quantico with an interest in counterterrorism. "What do you think it means?" he asked quietly.

He was pleased to see her straighten up and look at him seriously, not like a student answering a teacher, but a colleague answering a peer. "If I were doing the analysis, I would say it sounds like a sleeper cell has been activated."

"That's what I would say, too," he agreed with a sigh.

He noticed only a flicker of pleasure across her face at his answer before her face turned grim. This lent a whole new urgency to the case.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1.

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Chapter 8  
Friday, November 18, 2005  
3:35 P.M.  
Charlie's office

Charlie frowned at the chalkboard in concentration, the combination of Larry and Alan's voices in the background a dull buzz in his ears. He tentatively wrote an expression on the board, erased part of it, and then, more confidently, rewrote it and added a final constant at the end.

"Okay, here it is," he said, turning around to face the other two men. Alan was seated in Charlie's desk chair, scrutinizing the blackboard. Larry was perched on the desk, turning a balsa-wood tetrahedron over and over in his hands, and saying something about lost opportunities and the small tragedies of life.

Laurel again, Charlie thought. His friend's relationship, after veering off the trail of friendship last year, seemed to have continued right on into the ditch. Larry hadn't talked to Charlie very much about her, but Amita told him that Larry had quietly thanked her for her advice to try again before telling her some things apparently weren't meant to be. He remembered Amita looking down at the floor as she said it, just a week or so ago, and wondering if it was really Larry and Laurel she was talking about. He dragged his thoughts away before they could go any farther down that well-worn trail of regret.

Alan and Larry were both looking at him expectantly, and he cleared his throat. "So, um, Dad, these are the equations you asked me to put together. Basically, it's an isothermal isotropic one-dimensional chemical transport equation, modified for the unsaturated ground conditions of our particular site."

Alan blinked. "No wonder I was having a hard time figuring it out myself," he said dryly.

"Actually, you were on the right track." He was several miles away from the station, to continue the railroad metaphor, but Charlie wasn't about to tell him that. "This is just the first step, though. See, what we're interested in modeling is something like this…"

Turning back to the board, he drew a series of evenly-spaced dots in a grid pattern, then drew lines between them to make them look three-dimensional. About halfway down, he shaded in the spaces between some of the points. Then he added a heavy line across the top of his lattice, and drew a child's version of a tree on top just for fun. "Think of a network of points, or nodes, underground. You might think of groundwater as being like an underground lake, but really it's found in-between particles of soil, rock, and whatever else is down there. Above a certain point–" he tapped the top part of the lattice drawing–"there's more air than water between the soil particles. Below that," he said as he indicated the lower portion of his diagram, "the spaces between the soil particles are saturated with water."

"Yes, Charlie, I know that. And that line between them is the water table," Alan said.

"Right. Now, say we inject something else besides water into the soil." He drew a little rocket next to his tree. As he turned back to his audience, he saw his father smirking at him. "What? The most common source of perchlorate is solid rocket fuel."

Alan shook his head. "You're going to be great with your kids someday, you know that? I can just see you explaining higher mathematics to a three-year-old using little pictures like that."

Charlie flushed. "Hey, my students seem to like it." He rushed on to deter any further mention of future grandchildren. "Anyway, the point is, if something like perchlorate leaks into the ground—" he took a piece of yellow chalk and drew a line coming out of the rocket and into the lattice—"it's going to move differently in the unsaturated zone, where there's still air between the soil particles, than below the water table, where it's interacting with water."

He took his chalk and tapped one of the dots in the lattice. "So what we do is draw an imaginary network of points, or nodes, underground. We run this equation, which is for one-dimensional flows only, between each of these points. When we put the results together, we get the three-dimensional conclusion."

Alan nodded. "And what do you get?"

Charlie nodded to the desk behind him. "See that big stack of paper there? After several hours of computing time, that's what you get."

Alan laid a hand on top of the pile, which was about four inches thick. "Is there a short version?"

Larry chuckled, and Charlie said, "Of course. I plugged the results into some 3-D visualization software, and here's what I got." He reached between Alan and Larry to wake up his laptop and click on the appropriate window. What they saw was a reproduction of the lattice he had drawn on the board, but with different colors assigned to the different points.

Alan regarded it for a moment. Then he said, "If I'm interpreting this right, and please tell me if I'm not, it looks like the plume of perchlorate doesn't get very far." He pointed at the screen, where a cluster of red dots trailed away into orange and yellow, with a few green dots at the bottom edge of the screen.

"That's right. Which means that this is accurately modeling what we already know. The city only closed a couple of wells, remember? Which means that they, and NASA, knew that this was a limited release. Based on the data you gave me, Dad, I've verified that."

"Your clients should be pleased, Alan. If they were seeking to determine the threat to the Los Angeles River posed by perchlorate, this is felicitous news."

Alan looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yes, but..." He turned to Charlie. "Two things. First, if it turned out that this was a relatively harmless spill, they also wanted to know how large a release it would take for the worst to happen. Can you run your model backward? In other words," he pointed to the edge of the screen, "can you start with the assumption that the perchlorate makes it all the way through the aquifer, and work backwards to figure out how much would have had to be released?"

"Sure." Charlie thought for a moment. "As long as you tell me what a harmful concentration would be at the endpoint, I can track that back through all the nodes."

Alan snorted. "Well, that's a loaded question. And that's my second point."

Charlie cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

His father leaned forward, forearms on his elbows. "See, perchlorate has only been a problem for the past seven or eight years. Before then, we didn't have the technology to test for it like we do now. And there just haven't been enough studies done on how harmful it is."

"What does it do, anyway?" He hadn't been thinking about the health ramifications of the equations and models he'd been working with, just the geometry and fluid dynamics of different substances moving underground. He felt like he was coming up to the surface after scuba diving, realizing that the world below him, while completely fascinating, was qualitatively different than the world he was now in. It took him a second to readjust his thinking.

"It's not as bad as far as contaminants go," Larry was saying, examining the tetrahedron he still held. "It mimics iodine and inhibits the synthesis of growth hormones in the thyroid gland."

"That sounds pretty bad," Charlie retorted.

Alan shook his head. "For most people, it doesn't do anything; we're full-grown and we get enough iodine from our daily diets. It's for kids, and especially pregnant women, that it's a concern."

"What's really interesting," Larry interjected, "is that perchlorate is a naturally-occurring substance. It's found in drinking water supplies in Texas and Chile, among other places, and studies there show no ill effects whatsoever to children or fetuses. Now, man-made perchlorate can be chemically distinguished from the natural variety, and so it's possible that the artificial substance can do harm which the natural one can not."

"In other words, it's not as bad a lot of the stuff that could be seeping out of JPL," Alan concluded. "Over fifty potentially toxic chemicals, according to the most recent information I have. This has just gotten a lot of press because it's relatively new, and there's a lot still unknown about it. So anyway, the short answer to your question is, the state of California says six parts per billion is the safe limit."

Charlie pictured an Olympic-size swimming pool full of water, with six small drops of perchlorate floating somewhere among the other hundreds of millions of drops. "That's a pretty high standard."

"Better safe than sorry, right?" Alan shook his head. "Besides, my point is that there's much more harmful chemicals that these guys could be worried about getting into the river, and into the groundwater. I just wonder why they picked this stuff."

He shrugged and stepped back. "Like you said, it's gotten a lot of press. Maybe when you tell them that it's not really that harmful, they'll look in some other direction."

"Maybe so. Anyway, it's six parts per billion, Charlie. Let me know how long it takes you to figure out that calculation, and I'll add it to my bill."

He waved his hand. "No, Dad, it's okay."

"It's not like I'm paying you, my client is. And you're putting a lot of work into this, so you should be compensated for it."

"Really, you don't have to. Look, I've been trying to think of a new example for my applied mathematical modeling class, and this is perfect. It would have taken me the same amount of time to prepare something for class, so if I were billing my hours, that's what I'd call it: class prep."

Alan looked at him for a moment, then nodded his assent. "All right, have it your way. I appreciate it, Charlie."

"Don't mention it." He waved his hand again.

Larry followed Alan out of the room, waving at him as he left. Charlie raised a hand in response and stood there thinking for a moment. He was glad his father hadn't pressed him on the issue, because he was reluctant to reveal the reason behind his refusal of payment. It wasn't that he didn't need the money, which he didn't. It wasn't that he would try to use the material in class, which he would; it was a good, solid example that was even locally relevant.

It was something that he'd felt with Don a few times now. His family had spent so many years on him, making sure his unusual genius was properly nurtured and applied. They would rarely, if ever, admit to his face that it had been difficult, but he knew it had, emotionally for Don, and financially as well as emotionally for his parents. Here was his chance to take that potential they had enabled him to achieve, and put it to use for them. He enjoyed not just helping the FBI, but helping his big brother with the part of his life that had been closed off to him ever since he joined the Bureau.

And right now, he was enjoying the opportunity to be of more use to his father than planning out a seating chart for a wedding.

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Studies show that readers who leave reviews have fewer cavities and healthier teeth and gums!


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1.

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Chapter 9  
Monday, November 21, 2005  
9:30 A.M.  
Offices of Carter and Eppes

The outer door of the office swung open, and Alan looked up from his desk in the adjacent room. He and Stan had decided they didn't need an office assistant; hopefully, when their business got going, they'd need the help, but for now they just made sure each of their desks had a direct line of sight to the reception area. He saw two people enter: a tall, slender man with dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a short, slight woman with frizzy red hair. "Hi! Are you Tim and Ellen Basso?" he called out.

"Yes, we are," she answered, looking through the doorway at him. "Are you Stan?"

"No, I'm Alan," he said, standing up and moving around his desk towards the doorway. "Alan Eppes," he said, reaching out to shake their hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you," Tim said, his handshake firm. He looked like a typical California surfer type, except better-dressed in khakis and a navy polo shirt. But the Birkenstocks were a dead giveaway. "We're grateful for the work that you've done for us."

"Well, I'm grateful for having the opportunity," Alan replied. "We're a fairly new business here." He could hear Stan in his head, telling him he was making them sound like idiots. "That is, we have years of experience between us, but in the public sector."

"And that's what we hired you for," Ellen said brightly, hitching her black leather purse up higher on her shoulder. In contrast to Tim, she was dressed in an ivory pantsuit with a stylish red-and-black scarf around her neck. They were probably in their mid-thirties, he guessed, though they seemed to have a fair amount of money between them, given her outfit, his work for them, and the Jaguar he had seen pull into the parking lot. "We just hope it's paid off!"

"Right." Alan rubbed his hands together. "Why don't you step into our conference room over here, where I've got our results laid out. Would either of you like a cup of coffee?"

They both refused the coffee, but followed him into the smallest room in the office. It was barely large enough for the rectangular table and six folding chairs, but it served its purpose. Alan had laid out a geologic map of the area, along with the data he had dug out of his own files, and the printouts that Charlie had made for him. Charlie's laptop sat on one corner of the table, displaying the same lattice diagram that he had showed Alan in his office. He had offered to come along to explain his results, but Alan had decided it would be better if he presented the findings himself. These were his first major clients, after all, and it wouldn't do to have them think that he had simply farmed out the work to someone else.

'That _is_ what you did, Alan,' he could almost hear Margaret saying in a teasing tone of voice.

They all took seats around the table, and he spent a few minutes explaining the basic chemistry of perchlorate. He'd learned these details several years back when the problem had first arisen up at JPL, since he wanted to be sure that the city was being treated fairly by NASA. It had taken a little digging through his old files, and a few hours staring at the notes that at first he couldn't believe were written in his own hand, since they seemed to make no sense. But he'd struggled with it, and eventually he had remembered the details of oxidation and isotope ratios, at least enough to be able to explain the situation to the Bossos.

"Now, for what you wanted to know." He tapped the screen of the laptop. "This program models the plume, which is what we call the contaminant as it works its way through the ground. The plume obviously starts at JPL, and based on the available data, this is the path that it would take." He traced a line with his finger on the map, from the location of the laboratory at the foot of the mountains, down the arroyo a distance of a mile or so. "Basically, this analysis confirms NASA's results. Not only is there no possibility of this perchlorate leak making it down to the L.A. River, but they were right to only shut off the two wells that they did."

Tim and Ellen exchanged a glance. Then Tim turned towards him and said, "That's good news, Mr. Eppes. Sometimes it's hard to trust the government when it comes to a situation like this, but it would appear that they're actually doing the right thing."

"Shocking, isn't it," Alan said with a knowing look.

Ellen smiled. "That is good news. But we're also concerned that since there's already been two incidents, there might be more. Were you able to determine how much of the pollutant would be necessary in order for the L.A. River to become contaminated?"

"Yes, we were." Alan typed a short command, and the view on the laptop screen changed. It showed a much larger plume, extending all the way to the bottom of the screen. "This is the result of running the model backwards. You probably don't want to hear all the gory details, but the short story is, there's really nothing to worry about."

"How so?" Tim asked, studying the screen intently.

"Well, based on the state standard of what's a safe level of perchlorate in the drinking water, which is already a very high standard compared to the federal level, you would need this much of the stuff coming out of JPL." He tapped a figure on the screen with his pen. "They don't have that much of it. NASA has been shipping it to other locations or destroying it since it's become a health problem, and there simply isn't enough of the material on site to work its way into the aquifer and on down to the river." He leaned back in his chair, satisfied. He'd been so pleased when Charlie had come up with that result. Not only was it not as great a health risk as some other substances, but there was literally no way that it could get into the drinking water supply of the city of Los Angeles.

His clients exchanged another glance. "You're sure about that?" Ellen asked.

He gave a single nod. "I stand by this analysis one hundred percent."

She took a long breath. "Okay, that's good."

They seemed much more reserved than he had expected. Shouldn't somebody representing the River Protectors be happy that the river was protected?

Ellen went on, "But perchlorate isn't the only potential pollutant from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, right? They must have all sorts of chemicals up there. Would they come in high enough quantities that the plume would get downstream?"

Ah, so that was it. He'd been ready for that question, ever since Larry asked it of him when they were playing chess the other day. He hoped he didn't sound like he was weaseling when he answered, "Well, yes, there are a lot of potential contaminants, just as there are in any scientific facility. But NASA has paid stricter attention to their environmental management ever since these leaks," and he gestured at the map.

"That's nice to hear, Mr. Eppes, but we're interested in the basic facts." Tim leaned forward, forearms on the tabletop. "Are there other chemicals that could get into the system?"

"Sure." That was the easy answer. Being more specific was harder. "There's two ways: either a larger amount of a substance than there is of the perchlorate, or a substance that moves through the soil differently."

Ellen nodded thoughtfully. "Something that can travel farther through the ground, right."

"What kind of substance would that be?" Tim asked.

Just then, the phone in Alan's office rang. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to excuse me for a moment," he said, getting to his feet. 'One of the problems with being such a small operation,' he thought as he crossed the lobby to his office and hurried to pick up the phone before it went to voicemail. "Carter and Eppes," he said when he picked it up.

"Hey, Dad, it's me."

"Oh, hi, Don. Listen, I'm in the middle of a meeting right now, so I'm going to have to make this short."

"Yeah, well…we finished tracing the remaining phone calls from our third suspect, the one who got away, and I'm at the home address of someone who was on that list. We haven't been able to find them yet, but we're at their house now and we're turning up some interesting information. The thing is," and Don paused for a moment. "The thing is, according to the datebook on their desk, they're supposed to meet with you today."

"What? But the only people I'm scheduled to see today are—" he broke off, not sure how far his voice carried through the suite of rooms. "Can you be a little more specific, Don?"

"Tim and Ellen Basso."

He closed his eyes. This could not be happening. "Hold on, all right?"

He laid the phone down and took a deep breath. Then he walked to the door of the conference room, stuck his head inside and said, "This'll just take a minute, folks. Go ahead and have a cup of coffee while you're waiting." Without waiting for a reply, he went back to his office and carefully shut the door. Then he picked up the phone, and said in a low voice, "Don?"

"Yeah, I'm here. What is it?"

"They're here right now," he said even more quietly. "They're here to hear the results of my, well, of Charlie's analysis. And you're telling me they're in league with—" he couldn't even bring himself to say the world. How could his clients be working with terrorists?

He heard Don let out a breath. "Well, we don't know that for sure, but we are going to need to talk to them. So can you make sure they don't leave until David and Colby get there? They're fifteen minutes away."

"You want me to stall them? How do I do that? What if they—" he broke off. 'What if they became violent,' he thought. 'What if these people are not at all what they appear to be?'

"You'll be fine. Just give them more details about whatever it is you're talking about. Look, Dad, we ran a quick background check on them, and they don't appear to be dangerous. But we also can't find anything that explains why this guy would have called them."

"Maybe it was a wrong number," he said, knowing how weak it sounded.

"Yeah, maybe." Don's tone of voice said he was unconvinced, too. "You'd better go keep an eye on them, okay?"

"Sure. Fifteen minutes, you said?"

"That's right. Hang in there; you'll be fine."

Alan hung up the phone and took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. Those nice young people in there were concerned with maintaining public health and environmental safety, not with harming it.

'You don't know that,' he suddenly thought, a chill running down his spine. 'You don't know that at all.'

He opened the office door and was both relieved and unhappy to see the Bassos still sitting in the conference room. Ellen was closing up her cell phone, and Tim was perusing the geologic map spread out over the table. "Sorry about that," he said as he entered and took his seat again. "I told you we're a small operation," he said lightly.

"That's quite all right, Mr. Eppes," Tim said. "We were just looking over the results of your analysis a little more closely."

'I'll just bet you were,' he thought, then stifled the thought before it showed on his face. "So what other questions I can help you with?"

"Well, you were telling us about the potential for other chemicals to get into the water supply, either because they're in higher quantities, or they have different characteristics."

"Right, right, I was." He paused to rub his hands together and said to himself, 'I'm sure not going to tell you all the details now.' "For the most part, we're very fortunate. Most chemicals aren't as water-soluble as perchlorate, so they wouldn't be as easily absorbed into the groundwater. Which means that most substances only pose a danger if they come in larger quantities."

"So what might those be?" Tim leaned his forearms on the table. When Alan hesitated, he smiled and went on, "We just want to know all the facts. Like I said before, we don't have a high level of trust in the government having told the public all there is to know about the potential hazards."

He spread his hands apart. "There's never been any hint of any contamination problems from JPL other than the perchlorate."

"And there never were any hints before that stuff was detected in the groundwater, was there?"

Alan took a deep breath. "No, that's true. All right, there was jet fuel dumped in the ground back in the 40s and 50s when the facility was first opened. There have also been—" he broke off as he pulled a file folder towards him and started looking through it, as slowly as he could. "To quote the EPA, there are 'waste solvents, solid rocket fuel propellants, cooling tower chemicals, sulfuric acid, freon, mercury, and chemical laboratory wastes' stored at the Jet Propulsion Lab."

He looked up to see Tim's wide eyes. "All that stuff is in the groundwater?"

"No, no," he hurried on, "those are all the different types of chemicals that are produced and stored on the site. They're all stored under strict protocols, and as far as we know, none of them are in the groundwater."

"What if they were?" Ellen asked quietly. "The jet fuel, say. How much of that would it take to get into the system?"

He thought for a moment. If he simply told them he didn't have the answers to their questions, they would leave, before the FBI got there. So maybe he should give them his best guess as an answer to their questions. On the other hand, on the off chance they actually were involved in some kind of illicit activity, he didn't want to provide them with any information that could be harmful later on. Maybe if he made up something instead? But if they were legitimate, then he would end up looking like an idiot, and so would Carter and Eppes.

He realized he was taking too long to come up with an answer when he saw them exchange glances with each other. "Okay," he hurried to say, "I don't know the answer to that. I can run this model again for a different substance, but it takes a little while to do. If there's anything else besides jet fuel that you're curious about, let me know, and I'll add that to the list."

Tim leaned back in his chair. "Basically, we want to know what it would take for some contamination from JPL to make it down to the L.A. River, and into the groundwater that becomes part of the drinking water supply for the city. Whatever the chemical might be, that's up to you to figure out."

Alan looked at him, the cautious businessman in him coming to the fore. "You realize you're asking me to repeat this process for dozens of other chemicals, and that it might take several days of work to do that."

The Bassos looked at each other again, and it was Ellen who said, "Yes, we understand that will increase the hours you bill to us. We just want to make sure, that's all."

'To make sure of what?' Alan wanted to ask, but bit his tongue. Instead he said, "Okay, then I'll get to it and get back to you in a few days. Is there anything else I can tell you right now?"

They shook their heads, and Alan went on, "So tell me a little about your organization. I understand it's a fairly small operation?"

"That's right," Ellen answered. "It's actually just the two of us and some friends who agreed that the existing organizations aren't doing enough to really protect the Los Angeles River."

Tim leaned forward again. "See, there's the Friends of the L.A. River, but they work a little too closely with the system to get enough done, as far as we're concerned. They clean up the trash along the riverbanks, and they talk about restoration projects, but in the end, they don't do anything to take care of the sources of the problems."

"Like what?" Alan asked, a small alarm bell going off in his head. He wondered if the words would have triggered his uneasiness if he didn't already know that these two were under suspicion.

"Like what we're talking about here," he replied, gesturing towards the map spread across the table. "It's one thing to clean up something after the fact, it's another to keep it from becoming contaminated in the first place. We just want to make sure that anyone who might be causing environmental problems is properly dealt with."

Before Alan could reply to that statement, there was a knock at the outer door. "Excuse me again," he said, hoping as he hurried to the door that it was the reinforcements he'd been awaiting.

"Mr. Eppes?" David Sinclair was standing on the other side of the door, with Colby behind him. Both had their badges out and had blank expressions, although David gave him a slight wink as he said, "We're with the FBI. May we come in?"

Alan was momentarily confused, then realized they didn't want the Bassos to know of his connection to the Bureau. "Yes, of course. What can I do for you?"

"We're looking for a couple who we think you might have seen today. Tim and Ellen Basso?"

They heard the scrape of chairs from the other room, and Colby quickly asked, "Any other exits?"

"Not from that room," Alan replied. Then he stepped back against the wall and watched as his son's colleagues went into the conference room, identified themselves, and asked the couple to please come with them. Tim sounded indignant, Ellen more cooperative. He noticed as the four came back out that his two clients weren't handcuffed, which relieved him a bit. "What's going on here, gentlemen?" he asked, not just for the sake of appearances but to try to get a little more information than what Don had provided him.

But he was disappointed. "We just need to ask a few questions with regards to an ongoing investigation," David replied. "Granger, why don't you take them in, and I'll stay here and talk to Mr. Eppes."

The three left the office, and Alan sank down into the chair in the foyer. When the other agent closed the office door, Alan said, "Now, David, can you please tell me what is going on?"


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Chapter 1.

Thanks for sticking with me so far…we're getting to the exciting part soon…

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Chapter 10  
Monday, November 21, 2005  
10:45 A.M.  
FBI field office

"Mr. Basso." Don dropped a file folder on the tabletop and lowered himself into a chair. "My name is Don Eppes, and I'll be asking you a few questions." The Bassos had been led to separate rooms when they arrived at the field office, provided with coffee as requested, and then left to wait. Ellen had sat quietly, but Tim had been pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

Now the tall, blond man was standing in one corner of the room, arms folded across his chest. "Eppes, huh? You related to Alan? Does that have something to do with why I'm here?"

Don sighed. "Yes, he's my father, and no, it's nothing but a coincidence. Now please, have a seat."

"What am I being charged with?" he asked belligerently, though he did drop into a chair.

"Nothing. Like I said, I just need to ask you some questions with regards to an ongoing investigation."

He snorted. "You can't just drag me off and start interrogating me without charging me with a crime. I know my rights."

"Mr. Basso, this isn't an interrogation." Okay, so it was in one of the interrogation rooms, and they were being watched on the monitor, but since the man wasn't technically in custody... "Tell me about your organization, the River Protectors."

"Oh, is that what this is about. Trying to hunt yourselves some eco-terrorists, are you?"

"Is that what you are?" Don asked mildly.

The other man stared at him incredulously. "Do you have any idea what you sound like? Hauling me and my wife in here while we're doing important work for the good of the planet, or at least our small corner of it. Is it because of our organization's name that you're automatically suspicious? Look, we have done nothing against the law with our activities, no matter what the LAPD says."

Don filed that one away for future reference and tried a different tack. "How do you know Tomas Ataud?"

His expression was blank. "Who?"

"Tomas Ataud. How long have you been in contact with him?"

"Whoa, now this is starting to get strange." He unfolded his arms and rested his hands on top of the table. "This isn't about demonstrating without a permit, is it?"

"No, it's not. Do you know a Tomas Ataud?"

Basso's demeanor had changed. His defiant posture had deflated, replaced with a quieter air. Don watched him just as closely, though. "No, I don't," he replied. "May I ask what this is about?"

Just because his quarry had softened up didn't mean Don was going to. "You received a phone call from him ten days ago. What did you talk about?"

He slowly shook his head. "I don't know. Who is he, and why did he tell you that he called me?"

Don was aggravated that their main suspect still hadn't said a word, so he snapped out his reply. "The conversation lasted seven minutes, made to your home phone. That's way too long to be a wrong number. What did you talk about?"

Either the man was a very good actor, or he really was totally bewildered. "The name doesn't ring a bell. What day of the week was that?"

Don checked the file. "It was Wednesday the 16th, about 10 A.M."

He watched as Tim Basso stared off into space for a moment. Finally, he said, "That Wednesday I had a meeting with a lawyer about a suit we're considering bringing against Boeing. There's some perchlorate contamination in the Santa Susana Mountains, even worse than what's coming from JPL. I wasn't at home to answer the phone."

"Was your wife with you?"

He shook his head. "She stayed at home."

"Do you get many business calls at your home number?"

"Our home number is the main number for the River Protectors, so we get lots of calls. Ellen never mentioned this man to me, so I guess he must not have been very important."

Don held back the scoffing sound he wanted to make. "Do you have the name and phone number of that lawyer?"

"You need an alibi for me not answering my phone?" When Don said nothing, only regarded him with a steady look, he threw up his hands. "All right, let me check my PDA." He pulled it out of his pocket and scrolled through a few screens. "Yeah, here it is." He flipped the device around so Don could read off the screen.

"All right, thank you," Don said as he got to his feet. "I'll check this out and get back to you."

Basso rose to his feet as well, but Don signaled for him to stay put. Before the man could protest, he slipped out the door and closed it firmly behind him. After handing off the slip of paper with the lawyer's phone number on it to a junior agent with instructions to call, he went into the monitoring room, where Megan was again watching both screens. "What do you think?" he asked.

"I think the more interesting show is going on over there," she said, nodding towards the display that showed Colby talking to Mrs. Basso. "I think we've got a case of the wife doing something the husband knows nothing about."

"Yeah? What's she said?"

"Well, she totally doesn't corroborate your guy's story. Says she was out shopping all morning last Wednesday. But someone picked up their phone when Ataud called, and it's easier to verify his story than hers."

"Right. We've got someone checking that out."

Just then, a short blond woman poked her head in the doorway and said, "Agent Eppes? I think you should take a look at this." She held out a cell phone. "This rang this morning, and the caller ID matches Mrs. Basso's cell phone number."

Five minutes later, Don had brought Tim into the room where his wife was, ignoring Colby's questioning look. "All right, Ellen," he said as he sat down across from them, laying the sheet of paper on the table in front of him. "Why did you call Tomas Ataud this morning?"

"Who?" she asked. Her eyes crinkled a little too much at the corners, as if she were trying hard to recall the person's name.

"Yeah, who is this guy, anyway?" Tim asked.

Don held up the cell phone that had been brought to him, the one that belonged to one of their reticent suspects. "Why did you call this number?" he asked a little more loudly. "How do you know him?"

"I—I don't understand," she replied, leaning back in her chair as if his voice was assaulting her. "What are you talking about?"

He laid the phone down on the table and dropped his voice. "Why did you place a call this morning to Tomas Ataud, and why did you talk to him ten days ago?"

"Look, we don't know who this Ataud guy is!" Tim had leaned forward and placed an arm across his wife's shoulders.

For an answer, Don flipped open the phone and paged through the screens. When he came to the one showing calls received, he turned the device around and showed it to the two of them. "This is Ataud's phone, and this is your phone number. Now can you explain what it's doing here?"

"Why would you have this man's phone..." Tim trailed off, and Don could almost see the wheels turning in his head. "Ellen, I thought you called that guy from Marina del Ray this morning. The one who was talking to us about the Bellona Wetlands. You said you were going to have some information for him later today."

She hesitated, and Don knew that Megan's analysis was right. The wife knew something the husband didn't. The only question was, what was it?

She lifted her gaze to meet Don's, and he saw apprehension written all over her face. "Can you tell me," she asked quietly, "who this man is?"

He let out a breath. Usually it wouldn't be in his interest to release information about one suspect to another, especially when he didn't know how they were connected. But if he was reading Mrs. Basso correctly, she was more worried about how he was going to answer her question than about whatever it was she might have done.

"Can you tell me how and why you've had contact with him, and with anyone else who might be connected with him?" he asked more quietly.

Tim was looking at his wife in confusion as she said, "I never met him. We spoke on the phone a few times. He had offered me help with a project that I've been considering taking up."

"What kind of project?" Tim's voice was wary, and he removed his arm from around her shoulders.

She took a deep breath and stared down at her hands, folded on the tabletop. "We founded the River Protectors two years ago to do something more meaningful, to take more direct action. And we haven't. We've held meetings, we've written letters to the editor, we've had a few dozen people stand outside City Hall and wave signs." Her voice tightened. "And all the while, who knows what has been leaking into our water from JPL and a hundred other sites, and no one does anything about it."

Don repeated Tim's question. "What kind of project, Mrs. Basso?"

She lifted her eyes to his again. "Tim knew nothing about this. I need you to understand that. I was only pursuing the idea myself, and if it looked like it was something that we could do, I was going to tell him." When Don nodded, she went on, "It was only an idea. I got it from a TV show, if you can believe that. There was this environmentalist who wanted to show how vulnerable the water supply was, and he put some kind of chemical in a stream that would react with the water purification chemicals and turn people's water green in their taps. Just to make a point, you know, not to actually hurt anyone."

"You were going to contaminate the water supply?" Tim had leaned away from his wife and was staring at her incredulously. "And get me to do it, too?"

"Don't you see?" she said, turning towards him. "How else are people going to understand if they don't see it for themselves? All the reports that people produce, all the evidence that is out there, and the public just ignores it. If they saw for themselves how much our water supply is in need of protection, then maybe they'd do something about it."

Don watched as Tim flung threw himself out of his chair and paced to the far corner of the small room, muttering something to himself. He caught Colby's eye and nodded at him. Colby said, "Mr. Basso, I'd like to ask you a few questions in the other room."

"No," he replied in a low voice. "I want to hear what she has to say for herself."

Don regarded him for a moment, and then nodded. Ellen had resumed staring at her clasped hands, and he directed his question at the top of her head. "Mrs. Basso, what does Tomas Ataud have to do with this?"

"I don't know who that is. The man whose cell phone I called is named John Parkinson, and he's a British man who was going to help me determine the feasibility of this project." She spoke in a low, rapid voice, and Don had to lean forward to catch all of her words. "I had looked around on the Internet to see if anything like this had been done before. I came across a listserv for people interested in this sort of... environmental direct action, and I posted an inquiry. Mr. Parkinson contacted me a few days later, and said he knew of someone who had planned something like what I was proposing in London, but hadn't been able to pull it off because of increased security after 9/11."

"What's the name of this listserv?"

She shook her head. "I don't remember. I can get it for you, though." She went on, "We exchanged a few e-mails, and he eventually told me that _he_ was the person who had been thinking of this type of project. He sounded really excited that someone else had thought of the same thing, and he suggested coming out here to help carry it out."

Don was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "And it didn't strike you as odd in any way? That this man was anything other than what he claimed to be?"

She looked him in the eye and said quietly but firmly, "As far as I know, he's _not_ anything other than what he claimed to be. You still haven't told me any differently."

He exchanged a quick look with Colby. Then he said quietly, "His name is Tomas Ataud. We've had him in custody for over a week now. He was on the no-fly list of the Department of Homeland Security, but he and a companion managed to make their way into the country a week ago. We haven't yet determined what they are doing here, but..." He trailed off, sure that she could connect the dots for herself.

She had lifted a hand to her mouth, and her face had gone white. "Terrorists?"

"What did you expect, Ellen?" Tim snapped from where he'd been leaning against the wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest. "You find someone on the Internet who wants to help you put a chemical into the water supply, and you don't think to question his motives?"

She turned to him and started to say something, but he was looking at Colby. "I can answer those questions for you now, if you'd like."

Colby nodded and gestured for him to precede him out of the room. When they had gone, Don turned back to Mrs. Basso, whose hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. "I'm going to need to see all of the e-mails he sent you, and I need to know everything he ever said to you on the phone, and what you told him as well. There might be more people that are part of this, and we need to find them as soon as possible."

She nodded, and quietly started to talk.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Chapter 1.

It might be a few days until the next chapter is posted, as I'm going to be busy with the Numb3rs-dot-org-in-LA weekend. But in the meantime, I appreciate your reviews…

ooooooooooooooooooo

Chapter 11  
Saturday, November 26, 2005  
9:45 P.M.  
Eppes house

"Well, that's the last of them." Don paused on the second step and purposefully brushed his hands together.

"You didn't have to haul all those boxes up to the attic," Alan said, looking up from his crossword puzzle. "Charlie could have taken care of it. Or I could have, you know."

"Yeah, well, considering it was the FBI who disrupted your business this week and carted off all of your files about the hydrology of Pasadena as evidence, I thought the FBI should put everything back. And Charlie's a little ticked off that we still have his laptop."

Alan looked at him over the top of his glasses, noticing the circles under his older son's eyes. "You're still getting evidence off of it?"

Don said down on the steps. "More like the computer techs haven't gotten around to looking at it yet. We had a big fraud case come in last week, and they're still mopping that up. Besides, since we don't think any of the information got out to our suspects, it's not as high a priority as it might otherwise be."

"But you're still missing those two suspects?"

Don nodded wearily. "Ferza finally broke down and identified them as Ryan Mott and Zeke Andina, but their histories only seem to go back ten years or so. We don't know where they're originally from or how long they've been here, but we are confident that they were waiting for a call from somebody."

He lowered the folded newspaper in his hand. "They've just been waiting here for years, pretending to be part of our society?"

"Yeah, delivering pizza, if you can believe that."

"And what about my clients? Are they being charged with anything?"

Don shifted in his seat. "I really shouldn't say anything more about an open case."

"I know that, but this isn't just any case. These people hired me, as it turns out, to do something that they were going to turn over to a couple of terrorists." That had kept him up the past few nights, pacing the floor and trying not to think about what might have happened. If anything had gone wrong…Suffice to say, he would never give Ron Northrop a hard time again about keeping sensitive information confidential.

"Well, Tim's pretty much off the hook, since it became clear that he really didn't know anything. And Ellen cooperated completely, so we're working out the details of a minor conspiracy charge with her lawyer. She's still in custody, but depending on the judge, she could be out on bail in a few days." He stood up and slowly stretched, wincing as a vertebrate popped. "Hey, I brought a six-pack over – can I get you one?"

"It's getting late for me," he replied. "But you go ahead."

Don checked his watch and blinked. "Wow, I didn't realize it was almost ten. I guess maybe I'd better get going instead."

"You look like you could use some sleep." He shook the folded newspaper in Don's direction. "Except for a few hours here for Thanksgiving dinner, you haven't been doing anything else but this case all week, have you?"

"Well, no, but it's a pretty important case."

Alan was about to reply that it was always an important case when the phone rang. He leaned over the table and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Is this the residence of Alan Eppes?"

"Yes, it is," he answered warily. It was kind of late for the call to be a telemarketer, but he had read recently that they had started calling well after the dinner hour so as to get a more civil response from their potential customers. "Who is this?"

"This is Officer Pat Tomlinson from the Pasadena Police Department. I hate to have to tell you this, but it looks like there's been a break-in at your company's office."

"What?" Alan sat straight up. Across the living room, he saw Don's head snap up at the tone of his voice. "What happened?"

"Well, we're still trying to figure that out. Someone called and said they saw flashlights moving around on the second story, but by the time I got here, there was no one here. Clear signs of forced entry, though."

"Is anything missing?"

"Looks like someone went through the file cabinets, but as far as anything being missing, that's what we'd like you to come down here and tell us. Do you need someone to pick you up?"

"No, no, I can drive," he said, rising to his feet and waving a placating hand at Don, who had come to stand in front of him with a worried look on his face. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"All right, Mr. Eppes."

He hung up and turned to Don. "Can you believe it? Someone broke into my office! We're in business for one month, and we get a break-in. Unbelievable!" He took off his glasses and patted his jeans pocket to make sure his car keys were there. "Maybe Stan was right: we shouldn't have gone for a building right on Colorado. Too visible. Oh, Stan – I wonder if the cops called him, too."

"Hold on a minute, Dad." Don's tone had an authoritative ring to it, and it stopped him in his tracks. "What did the cop say was missing?"

"He didn't know. What _could_ be missing, anyway? He said someone had gone through the file cabinets, but that doesn't make any sense. It's not like we keep any money in there. Why would someone want a collection of file folders and data…" he trailed off, feeling the gears in his mind click into place as he came to the conclusion that Don must have already reached. He raised his eyes to meet his son's. "Like the files that you just brought back from the FBI office," he said quietly.

Don nodded grimly. He reached back and drew his gun from its holster. "We have to assume that if they knew to look in your office, they know how to find where you live, and where Stan lives. Call him and tell him to get out of his house and get to the nearest police station."

"Sure." Alan's mouth was dry as he picked up the phone again.

"I'm going to go check the back door, and then we're going to get out of here, okay?" Don gave him a reassuring nod. "It'll be fine, Dad." Then he moved off towards the kitchen, gun still drawn but down by his side.

The phone rang four, then five times with no answer. Alan sighed in exasperation as he remembered that his friend and business partner still didn't have a home answering machine. It might be a good sign that Stan wasn't in – maybe the police had already got a hold of him, and he was on his way to their office. He forced back the thought that maybe someone else had gotten a hold of him instead.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Alan paused and furrowed his brow. It was awfully late at night for someone to be calling. But if there were terrorists out there looking for his hydrology data, they wouldn't politely ring the doorbell, would they? Maybe it was the police coming to check on him, someone who hadn't gotten the word from Officer Tomlinson that he was on his way. Maybe Charlie had left his keys at his office again. It would only be the third time this month.

"Dad, let me get that." Don's voice came from the kitchen.

He looked through the peephole when he got up to the door. A man stood there in a dark suit, waiting patiently for the door to open. He didn't recognize the man, but his close-cropped hair and straight posture spoke of an FBI agent's demeanor, as did the folded leather wallet he carried in one hand, ready to flip open and show his badge. The faint line of a scar down his left cheek reminded him of the one on his son's face.

"It's okay, Don," he called out as he put his hand on the doorknob. "He's one of yours." Probably a fellow agent looking for Don and unable to find him at his apartment. The boy certainly spent more time here than he did at his own place. Not that Alan minded seeing his son so frequently, but it sometimes made him wonder.

"Dad..." came the warning tone, but Alan had already opened the door. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, I hope so. I'm sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I'm looking for an Alan Eppes?"

He had been so prepared to say, "Yes, he's here," in response to the expected question about Don that he paused with his mouth open. Recovering quickly, he said, "Yes, that would be me."

The man gave a short nod and quickly flashed a badge at him before tucking it back in his suit jacket. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, Mr. Eppes. We need to ask you a few follow-up questions about your consulting work with Tim and Ellen Basso."

Alan paused. Don would have said something if there were follow-up questions to be asked, or at least an agent would have called Don with the questions rather than showing up in person, knowing his personal connection to the case. "And what was your name again?"

The man reached into his coat with his right hand, and Alan suddenly had a very bad feeling. He stepped back and grasped the edge of the door, wondering how rude it would be to shut it in this man's face if he turned out to really be one of Don's colleagues.

But the man stepped forward so that he was blocking the doorway, and when his hand came out of his jacket, Alan knew he should have listened to his instincts, no matter how silly they seemed. Because now the man was holding a gun, and it was aimed right at him.

He swallowed and froze, suddenly unable to look anywhere but at the short black barrel leveled at his chest. "Who are you?" he repeated quietly.

"Is there anyone else here?" the man asked. His voice was just as quiet, but it had a menacing tone to it that it hadn't a few minutes ago.

Alan grimaced. He knew Don's Suburban was visible in the driveway, but he didn't know if this man knew that it wasn't his. "Listen, whatever you want from me, you can leave anyone else out of it."

The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he took a step forward. "Who else is here?"

"Put it down."

He had never been so relieved to hear someone in his life. Don had spoken from the doorway behind him, his voice cold and commanding. Alan took a slow step backward and half-turned to see his son standing there, arms extended and aiming his weapon at the man in the doorway. "Now, Mott."

The man actually chuckled, and Alan felt his blood run cold. "I think it's a little late for that, Agent Eppes."

Don shifted his stance slightly. "Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head," he growled.

Then Alan saw a flicker of movement from back in the kitchen. He opened his mouth to warn Don, but it was too late. A second man had appeared, dressed in a suit like the first. He raised his arm behind Don's back, and though Alan couldn't see it, he knew he was holding a gun as well. "You'll be the one dropping it, Agent."

He saw the expression on Don's face change from angry to grim, although there still wasn't a trace of fear in his features as his eyes flickered back and forth between Alan and the man in the doorway, sizing up the situation. Then the man behind him took a step forward and jabbed something in his back. Don tensed and finally said, "All right," slowly raising his hands in the air.

His eyes stayed on Alan's, who was amazed at the confidence his son was able to project even while he was being disarmed. The second man took a step back and tucked the FBI agent's weapon into his waistband, his own gun almost casually pointed at Don's back.

'How many times has this happened to him,' he suddenly thought. 'How many times has my son gotten out of a situation where he's been at gunpoint that he can be so calm right now?'

"What do you want?" he asked suddenly, turning back to the man standing in the doorway.

The man took a step inside and shut the door before replying. The light from the living room lamp slanted across his face, reflecting off his dark eyes and highlighting the scar on his cheek. "You prepared a report on groundwater contamination for Tim and Ellen Basso," he replied. "We want it."

Alan's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The scarred man jabbed the gun into his side, and Alan went quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Don take a step in his direction before being jerked to a halt by a hand grabbing his bicep.

The man next to him spoke again. "The story was in the papers this morning. Environmentalists arrested for possible terrorist connections, aided by a consultant in Pasadena. It's amazing how much detailed information City Hall will give to a reporter trying to track down that consultant. It's also quite convenient that the last name happens to match the FBI agent handling the case. Looks like we're getting two birds with one stone here."

Although Don had brought back all of the files from the city archives, the printouts that Charlie had made for Alan's clients as a summary of the data they contained were still at the office. "I don't have the report anymore," he said firmly. "The FBI took it as evidence."

"Then you can reconstruct it."

He took a long, slow breath, unsure how to respond. "It took weeks to produce it in the first place," he finally said. "If you want the raw data that went into it—"

"Zeke."

The man across the room deliberately raised his weapon and placed the end of the barrel against Don's temple.

Alan swallowed, and he felt his hands start to tremble. Ryan Mott said, "As valuable as an FBI agent might be to us, we've had to assume that our colleagues have already told him what they know. What we really need is from you, Mr. Eppes. With that in mind, your son becomes expendable."

He found it nearly impossible to look at his son when there was a gun pointed at his head, but he had to. "Dad, you can't," Don was saying urgently. "These are the guys we've been looking for. You know why they want that information. They're going to use it not just to make a political point like Ellen, but to do serious harm to thousands of innocent people. You can't give it to them."

Unspoken, but glimpsed in his eyes, was a deeper truth. Their odds of being let go at the end of the night were about as low as the chance that if Alan said no, the two men would simply shrug, lower their guns, and go away. He was sure Don meant it as justification for agreeing with their captors, that he _was_ expendable, and that the lives of potentially millions of people rested on the documents upstairs not falling into the hands of these two men. Don Eppes the FBI agent was telling him that his own life didn't matter if it meant keeping other people safe, which meant that Alan had to refuse their captors' demands.

So he closed his eyes and gave a short nod. "All right. Let him go, and I'll take you to where the files are." He didn't really expect them to agree, but as long as he could stall them, he and Don had a chance at escape or rescue. If he continued to say no, and they shot Don, they would probably still have some means of getting him to do what they wanted. The longer he could keep both of them alive, the higher the chances that they would eventually get away.

"Dad—" Don started in a warning tone, but Alan shot him the look that had always gotten him to fall quiet, ever since childhood. He felt a little of the tension leave his shoulders when the man next to Don took a step back and lowered his gun. But his nerves were still hyper-alert; he could hear the quiet swish of the sprinkler outside, and smell the tang of the lemon-scented detergent in the dishwasher all the way from the kitchen. 'This must be what an adrenaline rush is like,' he thought, realizing again that Don would be used to this sort of thing.

So far, all it was doing for him was making him jumpy.

"Are the files here?" Mott asked abruptly.

He nodded. "There's twelve boxes upstairs."

Don gave him a sharp look, but said nothing. There had been several stacks of white banker's boxes upstairs, and he hoped Don had put the eight boxes of hydrology files next to them. They could stall for longer if they had to carry half again as many boxes as there really were down the stairs. Maybe long enough for the police to wonder why he hadn't shown up at his office.

'Or long enough for some kind of miracle to occur,' he thought as he watched Zeke Andina prod Don up the stairs. Right now, that was all he could count on. That, and his son.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1.

Sorry for making you wait a few extra days. Hope this chapter makes up for it...

oooooooooooooo

Chapter 12  
Saturday, November 26, 2005  
10:15 P.M.  
Eppes house

Fifteen minutes later, Don was getting desperate. Their captors were closely following them up and down the stairs as they each carried one box at a time from the attic to the gray SUV that sat in the driveway behind Don's Suburban. He'd figured out what his father was up to, saying there were more files than there really were, and he appreciated the extra time it gave them. But so far, he hadn't been able to take advantage of it.

He slid the box he was carrying into the back of the vehicle, and slowly stood up. Andina was standing a few feet away, as he had been the entire time. Just out of reach. "Come on," the man said, gesturing with his gun. "Move it."

He gave the other man a glare and started towards the house again, listening intently to the footsteps behind him. They were just far enough away that he couldn't make a move on him, but not so far that he could dodge him at some crucial spot like the front doorway. Andina had his gun, and although he didn't know exactly where it was, he figured the other man had tucked it into his waistband after taking it out of Don's hand. He pursed his lips as he thought. It wasn't likely that he'd be able to get behind the man to grab it, but maybe there was something else he could do.

As they entered the house for the third time, he felt Andina grab his arm and pull him off to the side. Alan was coming down the stairs with another box in his hand, Mott right behind him. Their captors obviously didn't want the two of them getting too close to each other. They didn't have much to worry about; he wasn't likely to try anything when they were both being watched so closely.

He caught Alan's eye as he took the last few steps. His mouth was set in a grim line, and he looked older than he had just a few minutes ago. Don wanted to give him some kind of reassurance, but he wasn't sure he had any to give. He settled for a querying look meant to ask if he was okay. Alan gave a small nod in response, his eyes flickering to the man behind Don as he did so.

"Come on, move it." Mott gave Alan a slight shove, and if he hadn't already left the bottom step, his stumble forward might have sent him tumbling downwards.

"Hey, watch it," Don snapped, glaring at the taller man looming over his father from the last stair.

Mott said nothing, but gave him a knowing look. 'You and I both know,' the look said, 'that neither you nor your father are going to walk out of here when you're done. So it doesn't matter how I treat him.' Aloud he said, "Only five more boxes, Eppes."

Don grimaced. 'Great,' he thought, 'remind the goon behind me that I'm running out of opportunities and that I'm more likely to try something. Thank you so much.'

Alan moved past, followed closely by Mott, who shut the front door behind them. Don had been half-hoping one of the neighbors would have their curiosity aroused by all the activity so late at night, but half-hoping that no one else would get dragged into this. It was bad enough that his father was there. He set his jaw as he realized that Alan would have been in this situation no matter what. If Don hadn't come over to return those boxes, the two sleeper terrorists would have quickly found that Alan didn't have any of the information they were after. He didn't want to think about what would have happened next. Especially considering that it might still happen.

He was prodded up the stairs again, his mind racing. If he could accurately gauge how far behind him Andina was, one well-placed kick would have the gun out of his hands and him falling back down the steps. One not-so-well-placed kick, and he'd probably get a bullet somewhere he didn't want it. He suddenly realized how used to wearing his vest he was. Rarely was he in a potentially violent situation that wasn't carefully planned ahead of time, or at least offered enough advance warning that he could suit up. Maybe he'd gotten too used to the security of that vest. It had saved his life a number of times, and he certainly wouldn't refrain from using one, given the opportunity. It just made for one more thing to remember in his current situation: he wasn't as invincible as he would like to think.

Up in the attic, Andina stood well back as Don picked up another box. He'd entertained the hope that the other man would stay on the stairwell, so that he could make a sudden lunge with the box as a shield. No such luck. Surely the other man realized, too, that his options were running out, and that he knew what was likely to happen after they finished loading the materials in the SUV outside.

Suddenly a thought struck him. "What are you going to do with these?" he asked, hefting the box in his grip. He'd carried two of them at a time up the stairs earlier this evening, but damned if he was going to do this any faster than he had to. "You don't have the program that was used to analyze them, and you sure aren't getting it from the FBI."

"We have our ways," the other man said, forcing him towards the stairway. "You don't think we're the only ones, do you?"

He'd been afraid of that. Their investigation hadn't turned up anyone else connected to these two, but they had figured that a cell of only two, even with reinforcements from abroad, was unlikely. "Here in L.A., yes."

"California's a big state," the other man replied.

Don grimaced. They'd been afraid of that. The odds of there being more than one sleeper cell within L.A. hadn't been that high, according to Charlie, but it was highly more likely that they would have accomplices somewhere to the north or south. "Lots of environmental groups out there, huh? How many of them are going to come off as eco-terrorists?"

"Not your concern," Andina replied as they descended the stairway again.

This time, it was Alan and Mott who waited well back in the dining room as Don and his captor went by. Alan's face was even more grim now; he knew as well as Don did that they were running out of time. And with the files being loaded into the vehicle outside, it wasn't just the two of them who were running out of options, it was all of the people who were being put at risk by these two men getting a hold of those files.

Fifteen minutes ago, after being outflanked in his own house, he had tried to tell his father not to give in. He knew why these men wanted the information they did, and he was prepared to sacrifice his own life to make sure that didn't happen. It was a decision he had only been faced with a few times in his career, most recently when confronting a saboteur in a railyard in Ontario with a bomb strapped to his chest. His training had taken over then, and it had taken over in the house, too. His one life wasn't worth that of the many he was trying to save, and he wished he had been able to tell Alan that.

He refused to answer the question that instantly sprang to mind: if it was his father standing there with a gun to his head, would he be prepared to sacrifice him for the greater good?

They went back outside, the chirping of crickets the only sound in the still night. It was a rare cloudy night, and combined with the low-wattage streetlights Alan had gotten the city to put in a few years ago to cut down on light emissions, it was actually quite dark outside. He hoped Charlie would stay at his office, or wherever the hell he was, for a while longer. He certainly didn't need his little brother walking in on what was going on here. It was going to be tricky enough to get himself and Alan out of this intact.

Don could hear a car approaching on the cross street a few houses down. It rolled to a stop at the corner, then began to turn towards them. He automatically dropped his gaze to the ground, a practiced habit that helped him keep his night vision intact in preparation for the headlights that would soon be sweeping across his field of vision. Sure enough, in a few seconds, he caught the flash of light out of the corner of his eye.

He heard "What the—" come from behind him. Instantly, he realized that Andina hadn't anticipated the headlights swinging this way, hadn't looked away from the bright beams, and hadn't realized that he had just handed Don the best opportunity he was going to have.

Without hesitating, he whirled to his left, away from the bright beams that were distracting his captor. In the same motion, he brought the box that he'd been carrying sharply up in front of him, using it first as a shield in case Andina fired and then as a battering ram, slamming it into the other man's gun hand and sending the weapon flying out across the lawn.

Andina let out a startled cry, but recovered quickly, bringing up his left fist in a blow that caught Don, his arms still full with the box of files, directly under the jaw. He staggered backwards, the added weight of the files nearly dumping him on his rear. Catching his balance, he hurled the box at Andina and was gratified to see it strike him in the chest, forcing him to take a step back as papers burst forth and fluttered over the lawn like white birds.

Pressing his advantage, Don leaned forward into a combination of a right hook and left cross, calling on all the frustration and anger pent up inside of him. Andina dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. He bent over and grabbed the man's shirt front, lifting his head off the grass and cocking a fist. But Andina's head lolled backwards, his eyes closed.

Don let out a short, relieved breath as he rolled the man onto his stomach and found his own gun tucked into his waistband. He snatched it back, then reached behind him for the handcuffs that were still fastened to his belt. Dragging Andina a few steps towards the driveway, he closed one cuff over the man's wrist and the other over the handle of his SUV. Then he checked the clip on his weapon and moved quietly towards the house, hoping that the two men still inside were unaware of what had just happened.

As he eased up the stairs and through the front door, he realized with a sinking heart that he wasn't going to be so lucky.

The door hadn't closed behind them, and even from within the dining room, the scattered papers on the lawn would be a clear giveaway that something had happened. Standing in the middle of the foyer, silhouetted against the light from the dining room behind him, stood his father, a stack of loose file folders in his hands. Right behind him was Ryan Mott. All that Don could see of the shorter gunman was his right arm, bent at the elbow from where he was pressing his gun in to Alan's side, and his head just behind his father's. The rest of him was completely shielded.

"Agent Eppes," the man said grimly as Don took a step into the house. "We heard the commotion. I take it Zeke wasn't able to keep you under control."

"It's over, Mott," Don said, rising from his crouch to stand in the classic two-armed stance, weapon steadily held out in front of him. "The police are on their way. And there's no way I'm going to let you walk out of here with those files."

"Oh, you'll let me go by," the man growled, "or I'll pull this trigger. You know that I will."

He knew all too well that that was a strong possibility. But keeping his voice steady, he repeated, "I will not let you walk out of here." His gaze flickered to his father's for just a second, and he got the slightest of nods. He thought he saw understanding and even a little bit of approval in his expression, and realized that his father had in fact been stalling for time with the extra boxes, trusting that he would be able to come to the rescue.

Although right now, he was wondering if that trust had been misplaced.

The gun moved to Alan's temple, and Don's jaw tightened. "Last chance, Eppes. Let me go, or you're out a family member."

By moving his arm up, Mott had exposed more of his side. Don kept his aim steady on the man's head, but he started calculating just how much he would have to move that aim downwards in order to disable the man with a shot to his side. If he moved quickly enough, and was able to signal to Alan what he was doing, he should be able to take the suspect down without harming his hostage.

Try as he might, though, he couldn't think of his father as just another hostage.

Then there was a loud click as the gunman released the safety on his pistol, and Don forgot to breathe. He didn't need his brother there to tell him that their odds of success had just gone way down. He started wondering how, if he laid down his gun, he would have any hope of getting it back. Or, if he pulled the trigger now, would that be enough to set off the other man's gun?

Then he heard his father take a deep breath, and he shifted his gaze to his. Alan was looking at him intently, and when he saw he had his attention, he said in a quiet, firm voice, "You do what you have to." Don appreciated the vote of confidence, but it wasn't really giving him any ideas about what to do next.

Then his heart leapt into his throat as he suddenly realized that he wasn't the one his father was expecting to take action. The brief closing of Alan's eyes, coupled with an indrawn breath, were the only warnings he had.

Then Alan slumped in his captor's grip, as if he had suddenly gone unconscious. His weight was too much for Mott to handle, and he staggered backward slightly, his gun moving away from Alan's direction. As Alan collapsed into a heap in front of him, he left the gunman completely exposed, apparently just as he had intended.

But Don didn't have time to admire his father's tactics. Mott was looking up at him, both men realizing how drastically the situation had just changed. With his father out of the line of fire, Don's confidence was restored. "Drop your weapon," he commanded. "It's over."

Somehow, he knew the other man would not obey, and he steeled himself to shoot his shoulder or arm as a deterrent. But Mott moved faster than he would have expected, raising his arm to take aim at Don with a snarl on his face. Taken off guard, Don wasn't able to duck out of the way before pulling his trigger in self-defense.

Two gunshots echoed through the house.

They were instantly followed by two cries of pain, then Alan's voice from the floor shouting, "No, Don!"

Then there was the slow double thud of two bodies hitting the ground.

Then there was silence.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1.

Thanks to everyone who has left a review so far, even those who said I was evil. (What, just because I shoot Don and then disappear for a few days? Sheesh!) If you haven't reviewed yet, let's get with it! You're running out of opportunities…

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Chapter 13  
Saturday, November 26, 2005  
10:55 P.M.  
Eppes house

The flashing lights from the police cars and the ambulances were casting strangely-colored shadows across everyone's faces. Alan knew that he was tired both because it was so late and because his earlier adrenaline rush had completely collapsed. He had been so tense a few moments ago that it had been extremely difficult to suddenly go limp like that. But he had read the desperation in his son's face, knowing that while he might be perfectly willing to sacrifice himself in the pursuit of terrorists, he wasn't going to be able to risk his father's life so easily.

He was sitting on the swing on the front porch, the same place he had sat countless times before while reading the paper or drinking a cup of coffee, looking out over a lawn and driveway now buzzing with activity. The paramedics had tried to check him out a few minutes ago, but he had protested that he was perfectly all right. So they sent him out of the way while they tended to more urgent matters. He looked across the lawn at the ambulance parked at the curb, its back doors open but its overhead lights off. The stretcher that was laying on the ground behind it carried a body bag, all but the face covered. He watched the red and blue lights play across it for a moment, but he was too far away to see the features clearly. His throat tightened, and he found himself having to look away.

"Mr. Eppes, are you sure you're all right?"

He looked up, startled at the voice. Megan Reeves had sat down next to him, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "Yes, I'm fine," he replied brusquely. "I'm not the one who was shot, you know."

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I know that. You can go over and see him in a few minutes, once they're done with him."

His eyes flicked over to the body bag again. Two men in suits were standing next to it, neither one familiar, one writing something in a small notebook. He turned his head away. "Thank you."

"We are going to need to take you back to the office to give us a statement about what happened tonight," she said gently.

"I figured that," he replied, rubbing a hand across his face. "It's okay if I talk to my son before that happens, right, Agent Reeves? No one's going to worry that we're trying to get our story straight or something?"

Megan smiled. "Not a problem." She gestured towards the second ambulance, which had backed into the driveway. Don was sitting on the open back of the vehicle while a paramedic bandaged his upper left arm. "He insists that since the bullet went right through his arm, there isn't anything a hospital could do for him that the EMTs can't."

Alan shook his head. "I suppose you tried to talk him out of that foolish idea?"

She spread her hands wide. "My policy is not to argue with the boss. He's got a harder head than a…well, you can probably fill in the blank, Mr. Eppes."

He was surprised to find a chuckle emanating from his mouth. "Yes, I'm sure I could. And please, call me Alan."

She gave him a smile and stood up. "Then it's Megan. Come on, I'll take you to Don."

They hadn't had much of a chance to say anything to each other after the brief gun battle in the house. Don had been too concerned with calling for backup, especially with Andina liable to regain consciousness out front, and Alan was too concerned with the blood spreading across the sleeve of Don's white shirt. He didn't know if his son was going to be angry at him for taking the risk he had, although as far as Alan was concerned, it was what he had to do. He'd seen the slight wavering of Don's outstretched arms as he faltered in the face of Mott's threat. He didn't think Don would have been able to sacrifice a family member any more than he himself would have been able to earlier that night.

Don looked up as they approached, giving only a slight wince as the paramedic wrapped the bandage more tightly around his arm. "Hey, Dad. You okay?"

He swallowed, then nodded. "Better than I have any right to be, I suppose."

"Come on, Don said that you were quite the action hero," Megan teased lightly.

He noticed the glare that Don shot her, and shook his head. "I'm lucky it turned out the way it did," he said quietly, then thought of his words and winced. One man was dead, and another was injured, though apparently only slightly. He still didn't like it that getting shot qualified as only a "slight" injury in Don's book, but that was the way it was, he supposed.

"Yeah, you are." Don's voice was firm as he said, "What did you think you were doing, anyway? The man had a gun to your head and he was about to pull the trigger. Do you know how lucky you are that your movement didn't cause that gun to go off?"

He heard the rising anger in his son's voice, and apparently the other two people present did, too. The paramedic quickly tied off the bandage, and then disappeared into the back of the ambulance. Megan gave him a small pat on the back before melting away herself.

Alan took a deep breath. "Look, Don," he started. "I don't actually know how lucky I am, and I don't want to. Period. I haven't been trained like you. I don't know how to react in situations where I'm being held at gunpoint, because, thank God, it's never happened to me before, and I certainly hope it never does again."

"That makes two of us," Don muttered. Then he said in a stronger voice, "Seriously, Dad. That was a dumb thing to do."

"Don't beat around the bush, just tell me how you feel," Alan said with a raised eyebrow. "Besides, why is it okay for you to play hero and be willing to sacrifice yourself if your father can't do the same thing?"

Don stood up and stepped closer to him. "This is not about you and me," he started in a low tone. "This is not about you being my father. This is about me as an FBI agent telling you that you shouldn't have risked your life like that. Just because it works on TV doesn't mean it works in real life. And besides that, you should've never even opened the front door tonight, not after what I told you earlier." His voice was rising slightly in pitch as he went on, "You're too trusting, Dad. You trust that things will always turn out right in the end, no matter what, and that can be dangerous. That…that naiveté almost got you killed tonight."

"Funny," he replied bitterly. "I thought I'd lost that naiveté a couple of years ago. Right about the time the doctors told us the tumor was inoperable."

Don's face became completely shuttered, and Alan was suddenly ashamed of what he had said. "I'm sorry, Donnie. I'm sorry." He laid a hand on his son's uninjured arm. "I understand what you're saying. It just seemed like the only thing I could do at the time."

After a moment, he answered, "Well, you should have trusted me to think of something," in a quiet tone. "That is why you upped the number of boxes we were supposed to carry, right?"

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Should have known that you would figure that out."

Don gave him a slight smile in response, then stepped forward and raised his arms. Alan returned the hug, being careful not to jostle his injured arm. He closed his eyes as he held on tightly, the images and sounds of the last hour blurring into a chaotic jumble of apprehension and fear. He felt Don pat his back once, then twice, and he reluctantly released him.

"You ready to come downtown with us?" Don asked. "We can wait until tomorrow, if you'd rather."

He looked across the street at the police car with the handcuffed figure in the back seat. "Are there more of them out there?" he asked quietly.

"That's what we've got to find out," his son replied.

Alan gave a decisive nod. "Then I'm coming with you."

Half an hour later, Alan stepped out of the elevator at the FBI offices and followed Megan through the maze of cubicles to her desk. Charlie was sitting there in a swivel chair, and he bounded out of it as soon as he saw Alan, sending the chair rolling back to crash against the desk. "Dad!" he exclaimed before hurrying forward and throwing his arms around him. "Are you okay?" he asked urgently.

"I'm fine, Charlie, I'm fine. And your brother's fine, too." He briefly closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks for their safety. All three of them.

Charlie pulled back and dropped his hands to his sides. "David called and said that something had happened at the house and that you and Don were okay, but that I should come down here. What's going on?"

Before he could answer, the elevator doors dinged across the room, and he turned to see Colby and Don step out. Alan watched Charlie's eyes widen as he took in the blood-stained bandage on his brother's upper arm as he lifted a hand to wave to them. He laid a preemptive hand on his son's shoulder and said with a casual confidence that he would have had no idea how to summon half an hour ago, "He's fine, Charlie, he's fine. Just got winged, that's what he said." When his younger son turned back to face him, face pale, he went on quickly, "That's why he asked David to give you a call to come down here. He didn't want you to come home to find no one there and, well, and a puddle of blood on the floor."

Charlie's dark brown eyes flicked back to Don, walking across the far side of the bullpen, the small red spot standing out sharply against the white of the bandage and his shirt. "But you said he's fine."

"Yes, he is." Alan considered how to break the news to him and decided that straight-out was the best way. "But the guy he shot…He isn't so fine."

Charlie swallowed. "Who? Is he—?"

Alan nodded heavily. Even if the man had been a terrorist, and even if he had been threatening his own life, he still wished the man wasn't dead. Not that he blamed Don; he'd told him to do what he had to, and he firmly believed in his words. But any loss of life was a tragedy, and seeing it happen in front of him, and in his house, had been one of the most difficult parts of the whole night. He wondered incongruously if the FBI could recommend the best way to get blood stains out of a hardwood floor. "He saved my life, Charlie. Your brother killed a man to save my life."

Charlie slowly sat down on the edge of the desk, not taking his eyes off Alan. "I think you'd better tell me everything that happened," he said quietly, but with a hint of steel in his voice that assured Alan he wasn't going to witness another meltdown over an injury of Don's.

"I'm sorry, but that's going to have to wait." Megan spoke quietly from where she'd been standing in the aisle. "We need to talk to Alan as soon as we can in case he has some information that might be useful."

Alan turned to face her. "Can he come along?" he asked, gesturing towards his son. "I'm sure you understand that I don't want to retell this story any more times than I have to, and I think he needs to know."

She regarded him for a moment, her wide brown eyes alert despite the late hour, flickering back and forth from him to Charlie, who had gone into the if-I'm-quiet-no-one-will-notice-me mode he'd perfected in his preteen years. "You're sure?" Megan finally asked. "Sometimes people find it easier to relate what's happened to them if there aren't any family members present."

"Megan, I had one son 'present' an hour ago, and I don't want to hide anything from the other one." Then a thought occurred to him, and he turned to Charlie. "If it's okay with you, that is." Charlie might well prefer an abbreviated version to the full story that the FBI was going to demand Alan give them.

Charlie hesitated, looking up at Megan. "I might still be able to help with the case," he said in a quiet tone that Alan recognized as wanting something more than he was willing to ask. "I should hear what my father and Don have to say."

She gave him a long look before saying, "You could wait in the monitoring room and watch both of them at once."

When Charlie's features relaxed and he nodded, Alan realized that was what he'd been hinting at, and he was amazed at Megan's ability to pick up on it. Then he realized that such psychological acuity was part of her job, and part of why Don spoke so highly of her. "Well," he said briskly, rubbing his hands together, "let's get this over with, shall we?"

Two hours and two cups of coffee later, Alan was feeling a strange cross between wired and exhausted. He'd recounted every detail he could remember from the time the Pasadena police had called his house until the FBI showed up. At one point, he bolted upright in his chair, remembering Stan. Megan had glanced at the mirror along one wall and told him they would check it out. He was greatly reassured ten minutes later when a junior agent poked his head in the room to inform him that Mr. Carter was alive and well and had given him an earful for being awakened in the middle of the night. Alan chuckled and thanked both the agent and Megan.

He tried to remain as dispassionate as he could while talking about the terrorists holding them at gunpoint, but he was frustrated to find his hands shaking when he described how they had used Don to threaten him. Through the plexiglass walls of the interrogation room, he could see Don giving his statement a couple of rooms over, and he swallowed when he caught sight of the red patch on his upper arm, thinking of how much worse it could have been. Megan placed a hand over his and asked if he wanted to take a break. But he could picture Charlie waiting anxiously on the other side of the mirror, and so he shook his head and plowed on.

Megan took careful notes throughout his story, only asking an occasional, "What next?" or "Go on," when he paused. She perked up when he talked about a phone call that Ryan Mott had made while Alan was carrying one of the boxes outside, giving another meaningful glance at the mirror. Alan didn't see how anything he was saying could help them catch the men who were still out there, since they had probably already started looking through the man's cell phone records, but she assured him that any small detail might help.

They did take a break once: after he had finished telling her how it had all ended, with him slumped to the floor and hearing Don's sharp cry as the bullet struck him while he was diving to the ground. Alan had paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts and swallowing back the sudden lump in his throat. Megan must have understood the expression on his face, for she stood up and said, "I think I need a refill," she said, tapping her empty FBI mug against the table. "Do you want some more?"

He shook his head, fidgeting with his clasped hands, and she left the room, propping the door open with a chair. He wasn't surprised when, a few seconds later, Charlie entered the room, his face pale and mouth set in a grim line. He sat down next to Alan and put a hand over his. "You were amazing, Dad," he said quietly.

"That's not what your brother thinks," he scoffed. "He thinks I took too big a risk."

"That's not what I meant." Charlie cleared his throat. "I was watching Don tell his story, you know, next door," and he jerked his thumb towards the mirror. "He was so matter-of-fact about it. I mean, I've seen him give a statement before, and he didn't really treat this any differently. It's part of his job, right? But then you, you're sitting in here and talking the same way that he is. You're so calm, so collected, and meanwhile you're describing how you and Don nearly—" He broke off and dropped his gaze to the tabletop.

"You expect me to be falling apart in here?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Charlie's face was as serious as he had ever seen it. "I would be." When Alan shook his head, he went on, "No, I mean it. I would be falling apart in here talking about it, assuming I hadn't already completely freaked out when someone was holding a gun to my head, or Don's." He took his hand back and nervously drummed his fingers on the table. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You've always been the rock in our family."

The instant teasing reply of not talking about his father like he had rocks in his head died on his lips. "I don't feel like it, Charlie." 'Not when your mom died,' he didn't have to say.

The soulful expression in Charlie's eyes was the same one he wore whenever he was thinking about Margaret Eppes. "Yes, you are, Dad. You're the one we rely on to tell us things are going to be okay. You're the one who _knows_ things are going to be okay."

The echo of Don's words earlier that night caught him by surprise. How did his sons get to know something about him that he didn't even realize himself? Although, he reasoned, if he knew his sons as well as he did, there was no reason to think they hadn't analyzed him as well. "Thank you, Charlie," he said, putting a hand over the one that was still restlessly tapping the tabletop. "That means a lot to me."

Charlie gave an embarrassed grin, and at that moment, Megan pushed the door open. "Are you ready for round two?" she asked with an apologetic smile.

They kept going, Charlie staying in the room this time and occasionally throwing in a question of his own among Megan's probing queries. Alan tried to recall every detail he could, everything the two men had said to them, but he was growing tired in a way that no caffeine was going to be able to counter. He knew Megan could see it, for she told him to hang in there a couple of times, and even suggested he take a short walk around the deserted office. He caught sight of a clock on the wall and was amazed to see that it read 1:13 A.M. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been up so late. He glanced over at the room Don had been in and found it was empty. Maybe he'd already gone home. Then he shook his head. More likely he was out running down some lead from tonight's events, bullet hole in his arm and all.

Even after taking a break, Alan could only last another half hour. When Megan finally closed her notebook and signaled to someone still waiting in the observation room, he gave a long sigh and closed his eyes. He opened them a moment later to see her handing off the notebook to Don and saying, "There's not much, but we can start with the phone call. I'm going to take these two home and then come back and start in on that."

Don nodded. "You okay, Dad?" he asked, stepping into the room.

"I'm fine," Alan replied, his eyes straying to his son's bandaged arm. "You should get some rest, you know."

He waved it off. "I'll be okay. I've got first crack at Andina, but I want to let him sweat a bit first, you know?" His eyes flickered towards Charlie, and Alan understood what he wasn't saying. Don wanted the two of them out of the office before he started in on their suspect. He almost felt sorry for the guy.

Then he remembered the man holding a gun to his son's head, and he hoped Don showed him no mercy at all.

"Megan, you don't have to do that," Charlie was saying. "I drove myself here; I can drive us home."

Don shook his head. "For one thing, you can't exactly go home. It's kind of a crime scene right now, remember?" Charlie winced, and he gave a small, apologetic smile. "So I think it would be best if you stayed at my place tonight. You can fit on the couch, and Dad can have the bed. There's even reasonably clean sheets on it."

Megan spoke up. "And someone needs to escort you there and check it out, just in case." She raised a hand and gave a small wave.

Alan leaned back in his chair, suddenly realizing that this might not all be over. "How long is this going to go on?" he asked quietly. "Are we still in danger?"

"We don't think so," she said reassuringly. "As far as we know, everyone who was involved in the Los Angeles cell has been taken care of, and we're going to carefully leak some information to the press that will make it clear your involvement in the case has ended."

"You can do that?" he asked, surprised.

"You'd be surprised how far a carefully worded news story can go in flushing out the bad guys."

He nodded and slowly rose to his feet. "Thank you," he said to her and to Don. "Thank you for everything."

"I just wish this hadn't happened." Don shook his head, his expression bleak. "I should have known, Dad, I should have had someone on you and Stan…"

"Don't blame yourself," Alan said to him. "You did the best you could in a very tough situation. I'm proud of you."

A slow smile broke across Don's face, though it didn't completely chase away his grim look. "You too, Dad." He turned to Megan. "You take care of these two, okay?"

"Aye aye, sir," she said with a sharp salute. Alan smiled, as he realized she had intended him to do, and followed her and Charlie from the room, briefly clasping Don's good arm as he went by and being pulled into a brief hug in return. "Love you," he whispered in his son's ear.

"You too," Don whispered back. "Go get some rest."

The last thing Alan saw as the elevator doors closed was Don refilling his mug of coffee, gearing himself up for the confrontation ahead.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer in Part 1. Thanks again to Becky for beta reading and to Lady Shelley for maintaining "Running the NUMB3RS."

It's always so sad to post the last chapter. --sniff-- Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to my faithful reviewers; you make it all worthwhile!

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Chapter 14  
Thursday, December 1, 2005  
7:55 P.M.  
Eppes house

Charlie flung open the front door. "Dad?" he called out anxiously.

"Yes?" came the reply from the living room.

"Is everything okay? The car's gone from outside." Charlie's heart had leapt into his throat after he had steered his bike into the driveway and noticed the anomalous condition of the street in front of their house. It had only taken a day or so for him to get used to the unmarked police vehicle being there, so its current absence was more than a little alarming.

"Everything's fine, Charlie." Don's voice came from the couch, out of his line of sight. "We caught the last guy we were looking for this morning, so we sent the cops home."

"Oh." Relieved, Charlie let his backpack slide off his shoulder. "That's great news," he said as he stepped forward and shut the door.

The new rug in the foyer was something he was not yet used to, and he stumbled a bit as his feet contacted its edge. A few days earlier, once the house was no longer officially a crime scene, they had found that not even a strong ammonia solution would remove all of the bloodstains from the wood floor. So he and Alan had decided that a new floor rug was a better solution than tearing up the floorboards and finding planks to match, at least in the short term.

But the out-of-place rug made it hard to look at the floor in that room without picturing a dead man lying on it, even if he hadn't actually seen the corpse. And after hearing the story of what had happened there, from both his father's and brother's points of view, it was even harder not to picture one of them in that spot.

He shook his head to clear it and glanced at his father, who was gazing over his Sudoku book at him with that look that usually meant he knew exactly what was running through his son's head. "Yes, it is good news," was all he said in reply.

"So, um, did Stan's tip pay off then?" He took a few steps forward into the living room, turning his back on the foyer.

"Yes, it did," Alan replied. "Can you believe that? Here I am on the guy's case about being overly enthusiastic in finding us work, and he ends up leading the FBI to two terrorists."

"Not more clients of yours?" he asked.

"No, no, although Stan wanted them to be. Ellen Basso had mentioned that her British friend had some associates up in Oakland, and Stan wheedled a couple of names out of her, thinking a little work in the Bay Area would be good for our reputation." He sighed. "Some reputation that would have been."

Charlie gave him a concerned look. "You don't think your business is going to suffer because of this, do you?"

Alan gave a deeper sigh. "Let's just say we're going to stick to housing and retail projects and nothing that could do any damage if it fell into the wrong hands."

"At least as far as you know," he said darkly, thinking of a young computer genius throwing questions at him about knowledge and responsibility that he had never been able to satisfactorily answer for himself, even all these months later.

"Well, your brother has stopped threatening to do a background check on every client who hires us, but I can't say I blame him." Alan dropped the puzzle book into his lap. "When I think about what might have happened…"

He couldn't help his gaze shifting to the spot on the floor that he knew was there, underneath the carpet. When he looked back at his father, he was shaking his head. "Not that. I've been trying as hard as I can _not_ to think about that." When Charlie nodded, he went on, "But what might have happened if the FBI hadn't figured out that something was going on. If these guys had been able to get something into the water supply…" He trailed off again and shook his head.

Charlie took a few steps into the living room and dropped onto the couch next to Don, setting his backpack down on the floor. "But according to my model, it would have taken a considerable amount of any kind of contaminant to get all the way through the aquifer. Most of the substances stored at JPL aren't as water soluble as perchlorate, so you would need even higher quantities of anything else."

"He's not talking about chemicals stored at JPL, Charlie. He's talking about anything you can think of putting in the water supply." Don broke his silence and set his empty beer bottle down on the coffee table. "Ellen Basso might have had some harmless little stunt in mind, but those other guys sure didn't."

As the words sunk in, Charlie was glad he was sitting down. His thoughts over the past few days had been so occupied with the personal danger to his father and brother that he hadn't really focused on the other ramifications of Mott and Andina's actions. Don's left arm would be in a sling for a little while yet, and while their father was convinced that Don had driven himself too hard the night he was shot, Don insisted that the bullet hadn't done much more than scrape the surface. Charlie didn't know which one of them was right, and he had tried not to think too closely about it.

But now his mind started racing, calculating the likely dispersal rates of arsenic or cyanide or various biological agents. He briefly closed his eyes, then opened them to find both his father and brother looking at him. "Did you find out anything specific from your suspects?" he asked Don in a low tone.

"Not yet. Apparently they didn't have time to get all of the details of their plan in place. The no-fly list guys were bringing in the technical expertise, and Andina and Mott were supposed to be responsible for getting the materials."

Alan broke in from across the room. "And apparently what those materials were was going to depend on what I told them, or at least what I told the Bassos." His expression looked as haunted as Charlie could ever remember seeing it.

"Dad, it's not your fault," Don began in a tone that indicated they'd already had this conversation, but Alan waved him off.

"I know that," he said, tapping the side of his head. "At least, this part of me knows it. It's the emotional side that's going to take a little more convincing."

Now that was something, ironically enough, that the mathematician could relate to just fine. But something else was bothering him. "Can you explain something to me, Dad? I don't know how the two of you can sit here, right where—" Charlie broke off and gestured towards the foyer. "I mean, I wasn't even here when it happened, and I'm freaked out by the thought of being here. I don't know how you can do it."

"I figured there was some reason you'd been spending so much time at your office this week," Alan said knowingly. At Charlie's rueful smile, he went on, "Well, for one, I live here. I don't want to feel like I'm being chased out of my own home. On the other hand, it's not like I really have anywhere else to go." Nodding towards Don, he said, "And it seems sometimes like your brother doesn't have anywhere else to go, either."

"Hey, is it a problem if I like the company of my family?" Don's voice sounded slightly injured.

"Not as long as you take us out once in a while to compensate for all of the dinners you mooch off of us," Charlie teased.

Don shot him a look in reply, but didn't say anything.

"To answer your question, Charlie, different people have different reactions to stressful situations," Alan went on. "This is actually the first evening I've been able to sit here for more than a few minutes without my mind going over and over what happened." His gaze shifted to Don, and something passed between the two of them that Charlie couldn't read.

Knowing what had happened between them, though, he thought he could guess. He'd watched both of them being debriefed, and he was getting a little better at reading between the seemingly unemotional lines of his brother's professional façade. The two of them had risked their lives for each other, and he supposed that that forged a bond that you had to be part of to understand.

And he hoped he never found out what that was like firsthand.

Alan continued, "I know it's going to take a while, and that little things are going to keep bringing it back up to the surface, like when the doorbell rang last night with the pizza delivery." He shook his head. "I knew the cop out front had cleared him to come in, but I still almost made him leave it on the front step without opening the door. But it'll get better." He looked over his glasses at Charlie. "I suppose that's what being older gets you. Lots of experience in working through trauma."

Charlie quirked up the corner of his mouth and looked away. That was one area of his life where he definitely didn't want any more experience. He turned towards Don, and the expression on his face told him he was thinking the same thing.

Something else occurred to him, and he looked back at his father. "So, um, did the city say they would be able to take back those files?"

"Yes, thank God." Alan took off his glasses and laid them on the end table. "Ron was more than willing to find room for them in a more secure location once he heard what happened, and I am more than willing to let them go. He's going to send somebody by tomorrow to pick them up."

"Good." Charlie rubbed his palms on the outsides of his legs. "'Because I was looking up in the attic again, and with those boxes out of the way, and what we managed to sort through last time, I think I'm satisfied that there's not a fire hazard anymore. So we don't need to, um, go through anything else up there." He paused and added quickly, "Unless you want to, that is."

Alan was regarding him shrewdly. "No, I think if you're satisfied, then that's enough."

There was a momentary silence. "'Cause you're right, you know." Charlie fidgeted with the seam of his jeans as he went on. "Everyone needs to work through their trauma in a different way."

Another pause. "Sure thing, Dr. Phil," Don finally said, elbowing him in the side.

He instinctively responded with an elbow of his own, and soon the brothers were mock-tussling on the couch, Don as best he could with only one arm, ruffling hair and jabbing shoulders. Then, "Boys, knock it off," Alan commanded in an all-too-familiar tone.

Charlie instantly straightened up, and beside him, Don did the same. He opened his mouth to say, "He started it," and then the absurdity of the situation struck him and he couldn't suppress a huge grin. Beside him, Don was quietly sniggering under his breath.

"The more things change," Alan said, putting his glasses back on and returning to his Sudoku book.

He looked sideways at Don, who was still chuckling a little. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the streetlights coming on, chasing away the deepening twilight with a soft orange glow. The dark blue color of the sky made him think of something, and he reached down into the backpack sitting at his feet and pulled out a foil-wrapped tube of candy left over from this morning's class. "Life Saver?" he asked, proffering the roll towards Don.

"Yeah, sure." Don accepted the roll and plucked out a round white-and-green disc. "Here, Pop," he said, tossing the roll at Alan. "Hey, these are the wintergreen ones, right? The kind that glow in the dark when you chew on them?"

"They give off sparks, right. It's actually a phenomenon called triboluminescence, the generation of light when the asymmetrical bonds in a crystal are broken." He held up the piece of candy for them to see. "The crushing of the sugar crystal creates a very small electrical field, and like with a bolt of lightning, a spark occurs when the positive and negative charges reunite. There's even a tiny bit of nitrogen emitted, same as in a lightning strike."

"And what does this have to do with anything, Charlie?" Don's tone was a mixture of amusement and tolerance. He could remember a time when that question would have been asked with more impatience or frustration than anything else. Some things might stay the same, but other things very definitely did change.

"It was something I explained in my applied mathematics class today, about asymmetry in crystals and how the application of force can produce unexpected effects. The wintergreen oil in the candy is actually luminescent itself, so it absorbs the UV wavelengths emitted by the breaking of the sugar bonds and briefly flashes blue."

"Uh huh." Don clapped him on the shoulder. "So did you turn out the lights in your classroom so everyone could see the sparks?"

"The classroom blinds won't close all the way, but I did suggest everyone try it at home." He jerked his head sideways, indicating the direction to the stairs. "I think the bathroom upstairs is dark enough. Let your eyes adjust for several minutes before you try it."

"How long?" Alan asked, surprising him as he laid aside his puzzle book and rose to his feet.

"Five minutes or so is best."

"I don't think there's room enough in there for both of us, Pop. Let me know what happens, okay?" Don leaned back against the couch and bit down on the piece of candy.

"You don't believe your brother?" Alan shook his head and pulled another Life Saver out of the package before handing it back to Charlie. "What did you call this again? Tri-oh-what?"

"Triboluminescence. From the Greek word _tribein_, to rub. Because it's the friction created by the breaking of the bonds that leads to the light being made."

Alan held up the small white disc. "I'll report back in a few minutes."

As Charlie watched his father walk away, his gaze swept around the familiar room, going from the new rug on the floor, to Alan's back as he retreated towards the stairs, to the host of family pictures on the walls, and finally to his brother, sitting beside him.

It was a weak metaphor, and he could imagine Larry taking him to task for it. But it had struck him so powerfully a moment ago: he could almost _see_ the triboluminescence in this room. Not from the candy he was crunching between his teeth, but from the three people here in their mutual home. It didn't matter what darkness might enter their lives and threaten to break the bonds between them. Together they could create enough light to chase it away.


End file.
